


How to (Properly) Court Your Teammate

by AetherSeer, Catznetsov



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2016-2017 NHL Season, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Courting Rituals, Cultural Differences, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Misunderstandings, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2019-10-27 15:17:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17769233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherSeer/pseuds/AetherSeer, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catznetsov/pseuds/Catznetsov
Summary: “What, you raised bywolves?” There’s a sneering undertone to Kuzy’s voice, and Tom doesn’t like it at all. And he doesn’t like the implication of that question, either, because … well, because hewas.Authors' Notes: This story will be updated.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a throwaway comment "What if the reason Tom Wilson’s like that is he was raised by actual wolves?” and turned into a labor of love spanning months of late-night musings and far too much laughter.

Tom comes into the locker room steaming, blood up and hackles raised. Kuzy’s across the room, shucking his jersey and easing off his pads for intermission. But he’s wincing just the smallest bit as he removes his gear, and that’s enough for Tom.

He strips his own gear off and does a cursory towel wipedown to get the worst of the game sweat off. Kuzy’s down to his underarmour and hockey pants now, perfect timing for Tom to pull him down on the benches between Tom’s thighs.

Kuzy, as always, stiffens for just the first few moments, but leans against Tom’s shoulder readily enough once he registers the familiar touch. Tom sticks his nose right up against Kuzy’s hairline, breathing in the scent of sweat and, yeah, some hockey funk, but it’s not like _he_ smells any better this late in a game.

Tom wraps his arms around Kuzy’s middle, making sure he has a secure enough hold that Kuzy won’t slip. Coach is going on about strategies toward the front; Tom half-listens, but most of his attention is caught by Kuzy shifting in his arms.

Tom ducks his head and rubs his beard against Kuzy’s cheek. Kuzy doesn’t have much in the way of facial hair, but the fine hairs will hold Tom’s scent for at least a while. And hopefully, if Tom’s vigilant enough about it, the other team will _get the fucking message_ that Kuzy’s off-limits. Of course, that doesn’t mean Tom won’t drop the gloves if they don’t.

Kuzy’s _his._ Tom’s job is to protect and guard his teammates, and Tom’s _good_ at his job.

Kuzy makes a face and angles his head, which, fair. Tom’s beard is a little coarse right now, and Kuzy’s skin is sensitive. But … Tom tightens his grip just a little and goes in for another pass. Humans are weird about scentmarking, especially around their muzz—faces. So Tom has to settle for coating Kuzy’s jawline with his scent as best he can.

Kuzy squirms more when Tom bumps his nose and lips beneath Kuzy’s jaw. But he tips his head back onto Tom's shoulder and lets Tom cover him in protective scent. Tom doesn't know why Kuzy's so red, though. They've been in intermission long enough for the adrenaline flush to fade, and it hasn't been long enough for the beardburn to show.

When Tom noses behind Kuzy’s ear, the squirm becomes arching into it for a moment. Tom approves; scentmarking goes both ways, and Tom has enough beard for Kuzy’s scent to be caught and held. Kuzy’s steadily turning pinker, but he’s also leaning harder into Tom’s chest, fingers clenched in the fabric of his hockey pants.

Kuzy squirms again in Tom's arms, feet scrabbling for purchase against the locker room floor. Tom loosens his hold and scoots back on the bench, tugging Kuzy with him by the hips. Kuzy shudders, and Tom _swears_ his scent changes, something new added to it. But Tom’s not ‘wolf enough to know for sure. Human noses, he knows, can’t pick up even a _tenth_ of what a ‘wolf can.

Coach says something Tom doesn’t catch, and the team sends up a cheer. Kuzy stiffens; Tom moves his hand to grip Kuzy’s hip more firmly, just dipped slightly beneath the fold of his pants. His thumb sweeps over the ridge of Kuzy’s hipbone. Kuzy’s breath hitches, and Tom frowns.

He frowns more when Kuzy picks up Tom’s hands from where they rest at his hips and deliberately moves them to rest on Tom’s own thighs. But, then again, he has been scentmarking Kuzy for longer than usual, and humans only have so much patience for that sort of thing.  
  
Tom whines against Kuzy's throat, but doesn't protest. Much. He does drift forward when Kuzy shifts from leaning against Tom, instinctively trying to follow and keep his face pressed up against Kuzy’s bared throat, but he catches himself and rocks back.

Kuzy's breathing harder than usual, and his gait's a little more of a waddle when he makes a break for the toilets. Maybe there was an injury Tom didn’t see? He resolves to wait and check in after the game, because anything that makes Kuzy short of breath could be _bad._

Tom catches the last bit of Coach’s speech to hype up the team, and has just enough time to shrug back into his pads and jersey before they’re lining up again to retake the ice. He spots Kuzy in the hallway, but Kuzy’s hair is damp, like he’d … like he’d washed off Tom’s protective scent.

Tom closes his eyes for a moment. Breathes in and out. Humans don’t always know _why_ ‘wolves do things, he reminds himself. Kuzy couldn’t have known washing off that scentmark is a rejection of Tom’s protection. And even if he did … well, Tom knows his role on the Capitals better than anyone. Rejected or not, he’s still going to protect his teammates.

  
Tom’s pretty sure that Kuzy meant to reject his protection when he goes in for his typical cheekrub greeting a few days later and gets shoved into the (empty) breakroom instead. He is not prepared for Kuzy to start tugging Tom’s shirt out of his pants and start working at the buttons of his fly.

“Swear to god, not going on ice again with—” Tom loses the rest once Kuzy goes into Russian.

 _What?_ Tom doesn’t get much further than that before Kuzy’s pushing him up against the wall, hands all over Tom’s chest, and Tom’s not complaining, except—there’s a rise in noise level out in the hall and Kuzy freezes.

Tom's hands come up and he pushes at Kuzy's shoulders. “What are you _doing?_ ” he half-shouts, half-whispers. Tom pushes Kuzy back, rebuttons his fly. “Why would you think I—do you want—”

His brain's still stuck on Kuzy's hands fumbling around his crotch, the determined look on Kuzy's face. “Why?” he manages to get out.

Kuzy stares at him. “You the one nibbling on me!” he exclaims. “I’m supposed to think what?”

Tom doesn’t get the chance to answer, because half the d-corps burst into the room in search of something at that point, and Kuzy slips out before Tom can make him explain.

 

Kuzy goes for Tom’s pants again the next time the two of them are alone, backing Tom up against his own car after practice. He’s almost got his hands on Tom’s dick by the time Tom catches his wrists. “Wait—wait! Seriously, where is this coming from?”

Kuzy raises his eyebrows. “You notice you been groping me in like, weirdest fuckin’ way ever?”

Tom's so confused. “I’m not _groping_ you!”  
  
“No?” Kuzy’s crossed his arms over his chest now, and Tom can see a hint of Kuzy’s tattoo where his sleeve has ridden up. “You just ‘aggressive cuddling’ me, then? You bite me next, or what?”

“What? No!”

Kuzy’s lips thin. “In the locker room just a joke, yeah? Make me think you interested, and then laugh it off?”

Tom’s getting angry now, because Kuzy had _leaned into_ Tom’s scentmarking. He’d offered his throat for _more,_ even. “I wasn't! I wouldn't, I was just looking out for you! If I were I would court very proper, which I'm—my mama raised me right!”

Kuzy blinks. Tom can see him mouthing ‘court very proper’ to himself, “What, you raised by _wolves?_ ” There’s a sneering undertone to Kuzy’s voice, and Tom doesn’t like it at all. And he doesn’t like the implication of that question, either, because … well, because he _was._

“Werewolves are not wolves!” Tom blurts out. And instantly wishes he could take it back, because you’re _not supposed to tell humans._ And Kuzy, for all that he is, is still very much _human._ But Tom, Tom can’t let Kuzy insult his family. “The ‘were’ is important. We're not animals!”

Kuzy visibly processes Tom’s words before he says slowly, “Werewolves aren't real. A children's tale.”

Tom opens his mouth, closes it, tries again. “We're real,” he says quietly.

And, well, that’s not _technically_ — “Prove it.”

“I … I can’t. _I’m_ human,” Tom admits. Tom honestly thought he was over this, the ache in his gut when he can’t transform and run with his brothers on moons, or when he can’t pick up the scent that everyone else in the pack can smell so easily. “I'm not a ‘wolf. It skipped me.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Toronto, April 4, 2017**

Werewolves are stalking Evgeny across the Greater Toronto Metropolitan Area.

They land in the city, stow their things, and Evgeny tells everyone he’s going out to get a coffee, because he can't be stuck in little rooms with them all afternoon not telling them anything else.

“Hey, hey,” Ovi flags him down, before he goes. “My room, games, later?” He’s bouncing up on his toes, as close as any of them have come to real enthusiasm lately. Nobody asks, but if Evgeny ever wished he were more like Alex, it would be for his acting talent. Things suck, but Alex is going to play and celebrate with his friends until by sheer willpower they have something to celebrate.

Your rookie thinks he is a werewolf, Evgeny thinks at him, very loudly.

He thought the worst Tom would do was leave him to get off in a bathroom stall again, knowing what it’s like for Tom to drag him closer with a hand spread over his hipbone, huge and very warm and kneading just below at the muscle of his hip, his solid weight at Evgeny’s back and the rhythmic drag of Tom’s breath against his neck. It turned out he could do worse.

Ovi doesn’t follow, because who fucking would.

“I’m just tired, you know,” Evgeny says instead, hooking his thumb over his shoulder as if he’s justifying the Tim Hortons, and laying justification for skipping later. Alex is always so terribly kind about his insomnia and never asks about it, and he lets him go.

Toronto and everyone in it is winter-pale, washed out by the white sky he sees in flashes between the buildings and by the blue at least every third person’s wearing. Evgeny loves the travel when he gets to see the homes other people come from, but right now nothing here feels like Tom.

He asks for the drink the lady in front of him got, which even Canadians can’t pronounce, and can’t decide between sitting in the shop and wandering back outside, so he just slouches in a window seat, watching other people be cold and eating whipped cream.

Evgeny’s never been dumped before. Apparently, it sucks.

Maybe that’s an extreme word for the end of a relationship that consisted of some heavy petting, private orgasms, and Evgeny’s optimism. On the other hand, it’s the end of a three-year relationship with one of Evgeny’s favorite friends on this continent, and also _he_ isn’t the one who went to extremes.

It would help if he could get through a day without Tom there, and especially without Tom every kind of almost-naked. Shirtless, in a towel, in under armour transparently dark with sweat, half-dressed and sending Evgeny long soulful looks when he thinks Evgeny isn't paying attention, like he isn’t the one who told Evgeny the worst lie he’s ever heard instead of just coming out and saying he’s not into Evgeny like that.

It would also help if Evgeny could get that fact through his own head, and get through a night with thinking about the sounds Tom made, the smallest gasps whenever he pulled away from Evgeny’s skin, like he’d forgotten about air, the way he thoughtlessly held Evgeny exactly where he wanted him—except apparently he didn’t. Apparently Evgeny’s back and hips and the corner of his jaw don’t fucking care, because they keep reminding him what Tom felt like.

When he sighs and looks up again, there’s either a small wolf or an enormous Siberian husky glaring at him from the metro stop across the street.

Maybe distance is screwing up the scale—but then a businesswoman passes by it, and no, that’s a dog even Ovi couldn’t pick up. It’s acting as though it’s tied to the nearby bicycle rack, waiting for its person, and people on the sidewalk seem to be buying it, but Evgeny can see it very definitely isn’t.

This isn’t Siberia: you don’t just expect and accept a certain number of massive fluffy feral dogs outside a Tim Horton’s. Evgeny has time to question everything else about this before thinking that the alleged-dog probably isn’t targeting him, and then a minivan pulls up to the stop. The wolf sidles over enough to keep unblinking eye contact. So that’s that.

When he has to leave he keeps his face easy, walks like someone who isn’t irrationally worried about werewolves at all, and checks the mirrored glass of an office building to see if it’s following. It isn’t. A woman has paused beside the dog, bending down as if to speak to it. From this distance Evgeny has the sense they look like each other, the way dogs and their people sometimes do, both with broad shoulders and shaggy black hair. She nods to the dog, twists her fingers in its ruff, which must be at least waist height, and they walk off in the opposite direction, ignored by every bored Torontonian.

There is a different wolf waiting half a block from the hotel. This one is older, big-bellied, with ears tipped in soft gray, and digging idly at a flowerbed. When Evgeny passes it perks up, ears following him, and it forgets where it was pretending to dig. It has the grace to seem embarrassed.

Evgeny gives it a cold look. It tries a doggy smile, pink tongue lolling, and accidentally flashes a suspiciously full mouth of teeth.

“No,” Evgeny tells it, and keeps walking. He spins the revolving hotel door as pointedly as he can manage.

Blessedly, there are no wolves, werewolves, domestic or feral dogs of any size lurking in his hotel room when he flops into bed. There’s no Tom there, either.

He doesn’t see another wolf until the clock’s ticking down the last seconds of the second period, and he looks up from the bench to find two more of them sitting politely by an emergency exit on the walkway around the first level of the stands. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t met either of them yet by their dark markings. No one else is looking their way right now, but they aren’t pretending to be service dogs, so they might be actual monsters, but at least they aren’t assholes.

One of them has a paper bowl of poutine from the concessions stand, and the other is wearing a Capitals snapback.

When the final whistle sounds, Evgeny follows Ovi off the ice, back to their neighboring stalls without having to look up and risk seeing anybody who might be looking at him right now. He undresses slowly, listening to the hum of the room. Everyone’s happy enough, and more tired. Nick is tense; Nick is very possibly tense at Evgeny, because Evgeny has been dodging him, but so far Evgeny’s been dodging him effectively enough that Nick doesn’t know what’s wrong and can’t be properly pissed yet.

If Evgeny ducks his head to tug at a strap and looks up through his lashes, Tom’s on the other side of the room, making himself small. Carly says something to him and Tom winces a smile back. When Carly looks away, Tom turns to steal another long glance at Evgeny, right on his usual maddening schedule.

Right now, Evgeny doesn’t think he trusts him. But he’s always trusted his own eyes and other people’s faces, and Tom is broadcasting that he wants some kind of approval and is sure he isn't going to get it. Evgeny almost wants to lift his chin up, pet his hair out of his eyes and back behind his ears if that's what will get Tom to bounce back up and look proud.

Someone owes someone an explanation and apology. Evgeny is still pretty sure the someone owed is him, but if Tom’s missed his cue, Evgeny is happy to issue him another invitation.


	3. Chapter 3

**D.C., April 25, 2017**

They win the series against Toronto, and it feels so good to be through, to be done with the first round. Tom wants to sleep for a week.

They get a day to recover, and then it’s back to drills and workouts and hockey. And Kuzy’s still not talking to Tom outside of hockey. Tom might not be the most observant person, but he’s seen Nicky and Ovi talking quietly to each other, flicking glances between Kuzy and Tom, and that’s … awkward.

But they get through practice, because they're professionals, and Tom's getting ready to go back to his apartment, and Kuzy quietly sidles up to Tom. “Come to my house after, yeah?”

Tom doesn’t get a chance to say yes or no—what if he’d had plans? He doesn’t, but Kuzy doesn’t know that. Kuzy doesn’t wait for Tom to respond, just pulls on his hoodie and leaves.

Kuzy’s lucky Tom even knows the way to his house, although that’s due more to Tom’s GPS than Tom’s own memory. Once he pulls into the driveway, though, Tom starts getting nervous again. But Kuzy’s getting out of his own car, and so Tom pushes the panic down.

Kuzy’s house is big and airy, with lots of windows and neutral colors. Tom toes out of his shoes and leaves them in a pile with what seems like half of Kuzy’s collection. He pads after Kuzy, socked feet slipping against the wood floors. It’s awkward, being in someone’s home when you’re not sure of your welcome.

Kuzy leads them to what must be the most lived-in part of the house, a room off the kitchen outfitted with couches and chairs, and the enormous entertainment system that Tom swears every NHL’er buys themselves. Tom sits, cautiously, across from Kuzy.

“Your family been stalking me, yeah?” is not the question Tom’s expecting. It catches him off-guard, and his jaw drops unattractively. He gapes blankly for a minute.

“They promised they wouldn’t!”

Kuzy looks pretty unimpressed. “So big wolves I see in Toronto not your family? I’m just going crazy?”

Tom drops his head into his hands. This is _embarrassing._ He steels himself and sits back up, twisting to work his wallet out of his back pocket. He slips his fingertips beneath his insurance card and pulls out a folded photo, edges worn and the creases worn smooth.

Tom licks his lips, takes a breath, and holds it out. If Kuzy’s really been seeing wolves around Toronto, then … then maybe he’ll believe Tom this time. Maybe. And Tom’s _definitely_ going to cuss out Pete the next time he sees him, because Pete _promised_ not to fuck this up for Tom any more than it already is.

Kuzy takes the photo and unfolds it.

_A younger Tom sits, legs crossed, with a huge smile on his face, wearing a backwards ball cap. All around him are enormous wolves, too big to be dogs. Mother, father, brothers, sitting beside him and sprawled over his lap, panting._

Kuzy looks back at Tom; his eyes dart from the photo to Tom a few more times. “It’s not the best outfit, I know,” Tom tries to joke. It falls flat, though, because all Kuzy does it slump back against the couch, photo dangling from his fingers. “Werewolves,” Kuzy says faintly.

Tom doesn’t really know what to say, but … he does owe Kuzy an apology. “I …” the words get stuck in his throat. “I'm sorry I didn't respect your space. Things are different, among ‘wolves, and … I still mess it up sometimes.  What's ‘wolf and what's not.”

“Okay.” Kuzy’s still staring at nothing, or maybe the wall over Tom’s head.

Tom hunches his shoulders and lowers his eyes to stare at the carpeted floor. He takes another deep breath. “And I'm sorry everybody bothered you. They didn't mean to be rude. I mean, they did, but they weren't thinking—they just wanted to know if I was gonna ask to Court you. I'm sorry I gave them the wrong idea.”

“Court me?” And of course that’s the part that Kuzy picks up on, the word that slipped out of Tom’s mouth because that’s all he’d been thinking about for weeks now. “That’s what you doing?”

Tom's ears are blazing right now. Just red with shame and humiliation. Because not only did he embarrass and miscommunicate with the man he wants to Court, but his family totally freaked Kuzy out, too, and this just isn't how Tom wanted this to happen.

“I didn't realize it, at first,” Tom admits. “And then I … yeah, it wasn't the same as what I do with teammates. It was … more. And so I was going to ask, but then the Thing in the break room, and I panicked.” He swallows. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“So … courting. What does it mean to … to wolves?” Kuzy asks slowly. He doesn't quite say it right, doesn't abbreviate the “were” part right, but … Tom can hope.

Tom tips his head and looks up at Kuzy, who’s no longer slumped against the back of his couch; Kuzy, who’s still holding Tom’s old family photo in his hand. Kuzy holds it out and Tom opens up a hand to let him drop the picture into it without touching but Kuzy presses it there instead and then he doesn't stop touching Tom. His fingers encircle Tom’s wrist, and Tom just … lets him.

“Courting is …” Tom stalls, tries to come up with a way to explain. Kuzy’s thumb strokes over the pulse point of Tom’s wrist, and Tom swallows. Dares to hope. Kuzy’s watching him for … for something, Tom thinks. He doubts Kuzy knows what offering one’s wrist, or one’s throat, means to ‘wolves.

“Courting,” Tom tries again, “is kinda like dating. But it’s more like getting engaged. A ‘wolf is supposed to show he—or she—can provide for their Intended, that they’re good mate—er, marriage material.”

Kuzy’s still stroking over Tom’s wrist and Tom shivers. Kuzy notices, and stops. Tom tries not to whine at the loss. But Kuzy’s watching him more closely now. “The wrist, it means something to wolves, yeah?”

Tom's embarrassed. It’s not a secret, among ‘wolves, but Kuzy’s not a ‘wolf. And Tom owes him as much of an explanation as he can provide, so “It’s … vulnerable? Like, you offer your wrist to someone when you meet them, like a handshake, but … what you’re doing, that’s … more.”

“Is different than what you do in locker room?”

Tom can feel the heat creeping up his neck. “That was rude of me. I mean, scentmarking is normal, but … I got carried away, and that was rude. I assumed, and I shouldn’t have.” _That_ had been made very clear to him.

Kuzy runs a finger over the thin skin between the big arteries on Tom’s wrist, watching Tom the entire time. Tom suppresses more shivery anticipation. “What this mean to wolves?” Kuzy asks. “To you?”

“It means I trust you,” Tom breathes out. This close, leaning into the space between the couches, Tom can see Kuzy’s eyes darken, pupils dilating. He’s not expecting the tug on his wrist, but he follows it anyway, folding down to his knees in front of Kuzy.

Tom tilts his head to the side, baring his throat for Kuzy’s perusal. “This is how you ask to Court,” Tom says quietly. “It's a little easier when you're both ‘wolves,” he admits. “Humans don't have the same body language.”

Kuzy’s eyes sweep over Tom’s body. He’s still holding Tom’s upturned wrist in one hand. “So how do wolf you court say ‘no?’” he asks.

Tom feels like he’s been dropped to the bottom of a lake. He feels sick, but he _promised_ to be honest, so he drags out, “If you were a ‘wolf, and you were offered and you didn't want—didn't want to accept,” he says, “you'd either walk away or say you don’t want it.” _And I’ll respect that choice,_ he doesn’t say. Because it’s Kuzy’s choice, no matter what Tom feels.

“Okay,” Kuzy says, which is not the word Tom was just bracing for. “Okay,” and is quiet for a minute. “So how, you know, how wolf you court gonna say ‘yes?’”

“If you accept, you’d—well, it’s easier if you’re ‘wolf, but you’d bite here,” Tom touches just under his jaw, where the big jugular vein sits. “Not hard, just a ‘yes.’ And then you’d scentmark. Leave your claim. And then they’d do it for you. Equals, y’know.”

Kuzy’s eyes fixate on Tom’s exposed throat. “So I just gotta work a little harder, okay.”

_What?_ Work harder to what, reject Tom again? Tom’s gotten _that_ message loud and clear. He’ll clear out and go home and mourn as soon as Kuzy lets go of his—

Kuzy doesn’t let go of Tom’s wrist. Rather, he pulls on it, tugging Tom toward him. Tom sways in closer, his head still tilted up to see Kuzy’s face. He’s rather startled when Kuzy moves his hands to Tom’s shoulders, his full weight pressing Tom down for one breathless moment. But then Kuzy’s practically in Tom’s lap, knees spread to either side of Tom’s.

Tom’s eyes widen. He can feel Kuzy’s fingers where they’re digging into his shoulders, just a small pain, but one he selfishly hopes will bruise (it probably won't). Tom’s no ‘wolf, but his nose is good enough to pick up on the basics when Kuzy’s this close: soap, sweat, something that's probably just Kuzy …

Tom licks his lips, tilts his head back just a fraction more, and closes his eyes. Kuzy _has_ to know what this means; that this isn't some cruel prank, what Tom's offering here. Kuzy leans in, bumps Tom's jaw with his nose and mouth, a little tentative nuzzle, but then he pulls back a bit, just enough to see, and it's his fingers on Tom's cheek instead, tipping his face back down just enough so Kuzy can look at him.

Tom startles at the touch, opening his eyes again.

Kuzy gives Tom a little pat with the hand on his jaw and says, "Just first, okay?" Kuzy’s fingers trace down to find Tom’s pulse point, leans in, and kisses Tom.

Tom's surprised by the kiss, but … he's wanted this for a long time. And so he surges forward, presses into Kuzy's space. He wants Kuzy to know just how much Tom _wants_ him. But he has to gentle the kiss, too, let Kuzy take the lead because … because Tom's the one offering here.

So Tom's the one to break the kiss, staring at Kuzy once more. Kuzy, whose pale skin is probably going to turn pink from Tom's beard again, whose lips aren't quite kiss-swollen, but that’s an image Tom can imagine vividly.

Kuzy blinks at Tom, and puts his mouth back—Tom parts his lips again, anticipating, but Kuzy picks the corner of his mouth instead, leaving Tom gasping at nothing. And then down to his jaw, and back to the sharp corner of it, and he tips Tom’s head back again with fingers under his chin, cradles the back of his head to hold him exactly where he should be and finds the place he wants on Tom’s throat … and then spends about 15 minutes experimenting with teeth.

Tom groans low in his throat and chest, pinned beneath that light touch. He can't—he won't move. But Kuzy’s teeth are a tease, and Tom’s arousal is ramping up in a way that'll be hard to deny in a short while. Those nipping bites aren't a claim mark, aren't enough of a claim mark for Tom to think about biting that soft spot beneath Kuzy’s jaw. But oh, he _wants_ it to be.

Tom’s hands are still between them where Kuzy let them go, so he could move them to Kuzy’s waist, or that dip in the small of his back, but … Tom kinda doesn’t dare. Instead, he shifts them out, slowly, to steady his own balance against the carpet.

Kuzy’s focused on that spot; he's sinking into Tom, letting Tom take all his weight, hands running down Tom’s back to his waist to pull them flush together. Kuzy pulls back enough for a breath every now and then, and so Tom can catch a glimpse of _that_ spot on Kuzy's throat, waiting for Tom to put his teeth to it.

Tom’s inhaling in little hitching breaths now, which sounds ridiculous, but is actually true. Kuzy’s teeth are worrying that spot just beneath his jaw, and … Tom’s going to be wearing an enormous fucking bruise for _weeks._ A bruise in the shape of Kuzy’s _teeth._

Kuzy’s a solid, warm weight. He’s not that much lighter than Tom himself, for all that Kuzy’s built slighter than Tom’s own bulk, but Tom can hold this position for as long as Kuzy wants him to. He’s not giving this up. Tom tips his head back as far as he dares, tries to give Kuzy as much room to work with as possible.

Kuzy finally pulls back from Tom's neck with a little slick noise from where he's left Tom's skin flushed and wet around the deep bruises. Tom’s hands are still on the floor, supporting their weight. He considers moving them, but … Kuzy lays another stinging bite and Tom lets the thought slip away.

And Kuzy’s _hands_ are still roaming, kneading a bit at Tom's sides, rubbing little circles, fingertips digging in over Tom’s hipbones to hold himself in close on Tom’s lap. Tom’s fantasized about those hands. A lot. Maybe an embarrassing amount.

Kuzy lets go of Tom's sides, one hand going to adjust his jeans, and then reaches up to brush fingers over the mark, digging in for a split second and then gentling. “That look enough, or you want more?”

Tom arches into the press of Kuzy’s fingers, that deep ache settling into his bones. He opens dazed eyes, focusing on Kuzy’s face, the hint of ginger scruff and those swollen lips. That expressive face is quirked in a half-grin, a sight so familiar Tom just has to return with a breathless smile. “You _want_ me,” he murmurs.

Tom brings a hand up to settle at Kuzy’s hip. The other cups the nape of Kuzy’s neck, thumbing just under the other man's jaw. It’s a matter of moments to shift his weight and roll them over, Kuzy flat on his back, Tom over him, hips caught between Kuzy’s thighs.

Kuzy freezes beneath him for a split-second, and then arches up into Tom’s touch, turning his face to press into Tom's thumb. He lets his head fall back against the carpet, tipping to the side to expose his throat.

Tom knows just where that _spot_ is, can see exactly where he's going to set his teeth. He presses a kiss to that delicate skin first, then opens his mouth and bites down. He doesn't break the skin, but when he draws back enough to look, there's a perfect imprint of his teeth.

But there's more that needs to be done, to make it obvious that Tom’s claim is there and unable to be challenged. And Kuzy’s still baring his throat, so Tom gets to work.

Tom blankets Kuzy with his body, cupping Kuzy’s head in one hand, the other roaming up and down Kuzy’s side, rucking up his t-shirt and skimming over smooth skin. Kuzy doesn’t keep his hands to himself while Tom’s trying to work. He digs his fingers into the muscle of Tom’s back until Tom caves, stops trying to keep his weight off Kuzy, and brings his hips down.

Kuzy’s shirt gets rucked up further, until the only thing keeping it on is Tom’s unwillingness to pause his not-quite-mauling of Kuzy’s throat to take it off completely. Tom settles into Kuzy’s body, mouth working busily, hips hitching into a rhythm against the cradle of Kuzy’s thighs.

Kuzy’s nails dig into Tom’s back, and then those hands slip down further, shoving at the waistband of Tom's jeans. He doesn’t get much purchase there, Tom’s own ass working against it. Kuzy slides a hand around and between them, resulting in little teasing brushes whenever Tom’s hips involuntarily hitch forward.

Tom pulls away from the spread of what will undoubtedly be an impressive bruise where even a heavy scarf has no chance of hiding it, drops his head to Kuzy's shoulder, and pants. His hips rock against Kuzy's hand.

“Oh. Courting mean you not gonna fuck me now or something?” Kuzy asks, mostly of the ceiling, but covers the nape of Tom’s neck with the hand that isn't currently trying to get into Tom's pants.

“Well, it's not … ngh … exactly Proper,” Tom manages. Tom’s having a hard time holding onto that thought, though, with an absolutely gorgeous Intended pinned beneath him, sporting his claim.

“Only started being Proper tonight, we can't call time-out a few more minutes and try again tomorrow?” Kuzy says, eyes crinkled in that teasing smile when Tom raises his head.

Tom's so close to caving. Kuzy’s bright-eyed and sex-flushed beneath him; Tom wants to bite his way down that narrow chest, rub his face against those abs and lower. He wants—

It takes a few deep breaths, nose tucked into the curve of Kuzy’s shoulder, but Tom gets his knees under him once again and backs up. Kuzy’s sprawled out on his own living room floor, an enticing, beautiful temptation. Kuzy’s cock strains against his pants; Tom licks his lips. “It's not Proper,” he repeats, “but …  _I_ can't, but you … you _could._ ”

Kuzy inhales sharply, eyes widening. Tom watches him flick a glance down to where Tom’s zipper is getting extremely uncomfortable, and then back up to Tom’s face. “Meaning what, you get me off, but you don’t?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” Tom says.

Kuzy gets his elbows beneath him, and tilts his head. Tom’s eyes skitter over the darkening skin on his throat. “How long you gotta wait?”

“Uh,” Tom clears his throat, “Probably until we have the bonding ceremony. With like, family and stuff. To witness.”

Kuzy’s eyebrows go nearly to his hairline. “People gonna watch us fuck?” he yelps.

“No! No,” Tom assures him. That thought just about kills Tom’s arousal. He shakes it off. “They’ll witness the claiming and then it’ll be like a normal wedding. Throw a party, eat food, dance, and … well, usually there’s a moon run at the end of the night, but—it might be different since we’re both human.”


	4. Chapter 4

Texting across a nine-hour time difference isn’t the easiest, but Tom’s determined to make the best of it after the unceremonious end to the season. Kuzy’d been firm that he would be staying in Russia up through the end of June, and Tom’s not going to begrudge his Intended time with the family he so rarely gets to see during the season.

It doesn’t mean that Tom’s any less impatient when it comes to wanting Kuzy to text him back, though. Tom shoves his phone in his pocket and goes for a run to try and keep himself from looking too desperate. Which doesn’t make him  _ feel _ any less desperate, but does mean he has to run, shower, and eat before he gets a chance to see if Kuzy’s responded.

… he really should’ve waited until he wasn’t taking a drink to check his texts, though.

Kuzy’s sent a photo of himself silhouetted against the sunset. His face is half in shadow, but he’s wearing a t-shirt that shows off the swirls of his tattoo and the definition of his bicep where he has his chin propped in his hand. Over his shoulder, Tom can just barely see the swell of his ass. But most of the photo is of Kuzy’s face, where his facial hair has started to take a definite shape, one that Tom wants to trace with his fingertips.

Tom chokes a little on his water, and a little dribble of it escapes. Because Kuzy’s actual texts are  _ filthy. _

 

Tom’s dad volunteers to pick Kuzy up from the airport, an offer Tom quickly refuses. “He’s met me before,” his dad protests. “We did the dads’ trip thing in D.C.”

“Yeah,” Tom retorts, lacing up his shoes. “And then you and Mom and Pete and Jamie went and stalked him around Toronto. Yeah, he told me about that.” His dad at least has the decency to look a little shamefaced as Tom leaves the house.

Tom’s nervous as he pulls up to Arrivals, scanning the crowd for his Intended. Kuzy’s slouched against a pole, playing on his phone, when Tom pulls up to the curb. Tom hops out to help get his bags into the back, narrowly avoiding getting smacked with sticks. “Hey, careful with the face!”

Kuzy makes a kissy face at Tom instead. “Want me kiss it better?”

Tom can actually feel himself blushing. Because yes, he desperately wants Kuzy to kiss it better, and wants even more to roll Kuzy beneath him and relearn the details of Kuzy’s mouth against his own. He catches the amused curl of Kuzy’s lip and ducks his head.

They ride back to the house mostly in silence. Tom keeps glancing over at Kuzy, who mostly seems to be dozing off in the passenger seat. After nearly 18 hours in the air, Tom can hardly blame him. Tom does make an effort to avoid potholes and gentle his turns, though.

Kuzy’s completely conked out when Tom pulls into the driveway. Tom, for a wild half-second, imagines carrying him up to bed. He dismisses it nearly immediately. One, Kuzy’s not exactly a small guy, and two, Tom’s family would  _ never _ let him live it down. And also Kuzy might actually kill him for treating him like a fairytale princess. Maybe. Tom’s never actually asked about that kind of thing.

But now Tom needs to wake Kuzy up and let him process, before Tom’s family scares him off again. So he reaches over and nudges Kuzy’s shoulder with the back of his knuckles. Kuzy doesn’t twitch. Tom nudges again. “Kuzy, hey, you gotta wake up now. We’re home.”

Tom can only see part of Kuzy’s face from over his shoulder, but he can see Kuzy’s eye slit open and give him a skeptical look. “C’mon,” Tom tries, “You just have to walk upstairs and you can sleep, I promise.”

Kuzy closes his eyes again, and Tom huffs. He ends up walking around the car to open Kuzy’s door. Kuzy’s mouth twitches into a smile, and Tom rolls his eyes. He leans down and brushes a kiss to the corner of Kuzy’s mouth. Kuzy tilts his head so he can turn it into a proper kiss; Tom very much appreciates it.

They trade kisses for a while, and then Tom forces himself to back away. Kuzy tries to follow, but is hampered by his still-buckled seat belt. Tom smothers a laugh at Kuzy’s put-out expression. “C’mon, let’s get your stuff inside and say hi to the family. They’re excited to meet you. Properly, this time.”

Tom’s mom is the one to meet them inside, blocking the path to upstairs. She eyes the bags Tom’s carrying, and jerks her head toward the stairs. “Take those to the guest room, Tommy.”

Tom tries to give her a Look that conveys his incredulity—he’s an  _ adult, _ and perfectly capable of figuring that out—but she’s his mom and instead levels a Look at him. Tom glances at Kuzy, who’s still blinking himself awake, and makes the executive decision  _ not _ to abandon his Intended to his mother’s well-intentioned interrogation. “I’m gonna show Kuzy where he’s sleeping, and we’ll join you for dinner, ‘kay? Kay.”

He chivvies Kuzy up the stairs and down the hall, “That’s my parents’ room, Pete’s room, Jamie’s room, my room. And you’re here, right across from the bathroom.”

Kuzy doesn’t investigate the room too closely, dropping his bags and starfishing across the blue comforter. Tom sets his own armful of sticks and luggage to the side and closes the door behind them, hopefully blocking off most of their conversation. The house was designed with ‘wolves in mind—and extra soundproofing—but his brothers have been known to eavesdrop on private conversations before.

“So,” Tom starts.

Kuzy rolls to his side, mouth opening on an enormous yawn. “So,” he mimics. “You introduce to parents, yeah?”

“After you nap,” Tom says firmly. “There’s hours ‘til supper, and you’ve been flying all day.”

Kuzy stretches on the bed, toes pointed and fingers reaching for the headboard. His hoodie rides up, exposing pale skin. Tom wants to slide into bed, rub his face against the ridge of Kuzy’s hipbone. And then Kuzy curls in on himself, eyes closing. “‘Kay,” he mutters, already slipping off to sleep.

Tom slips out of the room and sets an alarm on his phone. He almost makes it to the safety of his bedroom before Jamie corners him—and then practically herds him downstairs to the family room. Tom doesn’t bother trying to weasel out of this one.

 

Tom’s phone vibrates in his pocket. His parents wave him upstairs, metaphorical tail tucked between his legs. Tom knocks on the guest room door, and then opens it enough to stick his head inside. Kuzy’s sprawled over the bed, face smushed into the pillow. He might be drooling.

Tom pads closer, socked feet noiseless on the carpet, and shakes Kuzy’s shoulder. Kuzy groans and bats at Tom’s hand. “Whzzmait,” he grumbles, drawing his long limbs in closer. Tom snorts. “C’mon. If you nap longer you won’t sleep tonight. Jet lag and shit.”

Kuzy yawns and blinks, rubbing a hand over his face. “‘M up,” he says.

Tom licks his lips. “Okay. Dinner’s in a half-hour, if you want to change or anything. Kitchen’s downstairs to the left.” He pauses for a minute. “You have drool on your face. Might want to wash that off before you meet my mom.”

Kuzy flips him off, but does swipe at his chin before following Tom downstairs. Pete and Jamie are nowhere to be seen, but Tom’s parents are talking quietly in the kitchen. Tom raps his knuckles on the doorframe. “Need any help?”

His mom waves him in impatiently. “Set the table. Forks, knives, plates. We’re having steak and potatoes and salad tonight.”

Tom steers Kuzy into the kitchen and pushes him in the direction of the island seating next to his dad. “You want anything to drink? We have … water. And milk. And … juice?” Tom checks the fridge. “That’s all we have that isn’t alcoholic, sorry.”

Tom’s mom sets down the plate of potatoes and puts a hand on her hip. “Are you going to introduce us, Thomas?”

Tom winces. Full name, not good.

Tom swallows and puts down the silverware and plates with a tiny ‘clink.’ His brothers’ voice get louder, and the back door swings open to let them in, still arguing. A pointed cough from their mom shuts them up quickly, though, and now there’s five pairs of eyes trained on Tom.

“Mom, uh, Dad, guys, I’d like you to meet my Intended. I’ve uh, told you about him before, and well, I  _ know _ you’ve seen him play. Um, Zhenya,” his tongue trips over the Russian syllables, but it  _ almost _ sounds like the Russian language video, “this is my family. My mom, Neville, uh … my dad, Keven. I think you guys met on the dads’ trip. And my brothers, Pete and Jamie.”


	5. Chapter 5

Tom’s pronunciation is  _ terrible. _ Don’t get him wrong, Evgeny is still going to kiss his whole face hello, but he needs to scrub the taste of that out first. 

“Sorry,” Tom says as they finish dinner, ducking under Evgeny’s stare. “He’s gonna be totally wired for a while, but like, you guys can head to bed, we’ll put on a movie or something, keep it quiet so we don’t keep you up.”

“Wow, Thomas,” the smaller but bigger brother says. 

“Thank you, honey,” his mother says. “Your father and I are getting older, but we don’t usually go to bed at eight, yet.”

“Maybe he being nice,” Evgeny tells her. “Maybe he thinking, oh, gonna be so busy, all children all week, mama and papa should get some time alone too.” He flashes teeth at Tom, just to see Tom’s eyes crinkle up in easy answer right until Tom plays that back and cringes. 

Tom’s mother coughs on her last sip of sparkling water, laughing. “Thank you, honey,” she says. 

Negotiations drag on in English from there, until Tom has permission to show him two episodes of Star Trek and no more or less of a good time on the old couch in the playroom upstairs, but that’s the moment, that’s it. He has an in here, he thinks, if he wants it. That easy.

“What’re you thinking?” Tom asks later, when Evgeny’s working his shoulderblades back into the worn plush and eyeing the far superior pillow of Tom’s arms. 

“What you think?” Evgeny says. “Ooh, ooh, guess.”

Tom eyes him up and down, then turns back so the garish mountains of some other planet light his profile, and Evgeny can trace the colors down the steady line of his nose, sinking down the torn collar of his shirt, a glaze of blue across his cheek and a star hanging in his eyelashes. Then he looks back evenly at Evgeny, and Evgeny remembers he can do that like this, too. 

Evgeny makes his most seductive eyebrows at him.

“Yeah, I think the best that happens is I get it wrong, you laugh at me,” Tom says. “Probably I get it so wrong it’s boring and you don’t.”

“Or?” Evgeny says.

“Maybe I guess it,” Tom allows. “And you didn’t want to tell me.” He smiles, and Evgeny has envied how easy Tom looks, not always calm but comfortable in his quick turns from anger into laughter to something still. His smile has always looked natural in a way Evgeny’s doesn’t feel, but maybe that’s only because Evgeny’s never known for sure how much of the mind behind it he doesn’t know yet.

“Don’t mind,” he says, but it’s true he would if Tom picked any of plenty of words to put in his mouth.

Tom laughs at him. “I don’t mean like I want you to want to tell me everything, okay,” he says. “I just mean if you don’t, right, that’s cool, and I don’t want to ask you to.” He wrinkles his nose. “Privacy’s cool, right. I know what it’s like not to have that.”

Evgeny wants to press his fingers into the corners of that smile. He settles for reaching out, but then Tom turns all the way to face him, thighs brushing his, and it’s easiest to fall into him, weighing him against the arm of the couch and cradling his head down into the pillows. Tom sighs, and Evgeny’s face fits exactly where he’s hoped it would against his collarbones, warm, close to the hollow of his throat.

“Tom?” he says, after a long time. “Your Russian sucks.”

“What?” Tom says. “Oh, oh god. Okay. How’d you say it?”

“Zhenya,” Evgeny says.

“Right. And how’d I say it?”

“Very, very wrong,” Evgeny tells him, and then has to scoot up so he can find Tom’s face in the low light. “Don’t worry, though, I teach, okay.”

“Okay,” Tom says. “How’d you say it again?”

“Like,” Evgeny says. “Like, like—” Tom’s chin is there, the bold point of bone, and he has to tap at it. “What’s that. You say when we first meet?”

Tom tips his head, just enough so Evgeny doesn’t poke him in the nose. “Probably something I’m real glad you don’t remember,” he says, and presses up, willing, lower lip soft under Evgeny’s thumb. “‘Hi, you’re pretty. I mean as a skater. I mean I like watching you. Hey, so does he speak English?’” 

“Did not,” Evgeny says, rather delighted, patting at his lip again.

“Well I don’t remember, and you don’t either,” Tom says. “You mean, like, generic? Hi, how are you, I’m Tom, pleasure to meet you.”

“That one,” Evgeny says. “Say again, yeah.”

“Pleasure,” Tom enunciates against his fingers. “Wait, seriously?”

“Zhuh,” Evgeny says at him. “Pleasure. Treasure! Not like juh. Zhure, zhuh, Zhenya.”

“That’s, uh, sure a coincidence,” Tom says under his breath, or he would, if Evgeny weren’t catching every breath right now. “Okay, um. Zhuh. Pleasure, Zhenya.” 

His lip pulls away into the sound, pillows sweetly again. “Hmm,” Evgeny says. He’s been leaning in and in, drifting closer to see how Tom’s mouth gives when he presses and color blossoms when he lifts his finger again. 

“Zhenya,” Tom says, turning to find the palm of Evgeny’s hand, mouth hot. “Please don’t make me say ‘pleasure’ again, babe, my dad is still downstairs.”

“Just a word,” Evgeny says, but his voice comes out honey-thick, and now he thinks to pay proper attention to how Tom’s voice feels through his chest underneath him, warm, and then to Tom’s chest under him, curves firm through the fabric of his shirt. There’s just the faintest friction when he moves against them, and Tom swallows some tight sound. When Evgeny’s other hand sneaks up to his collar he can feel the soft curls of Tom’s hair he must be rubbing and catching between their chests. “Oh, alright. I make you practice plenty, but only when you want to, okay.”

“I missed you,” Tom says. “Like, lots. Like wild.”

“I send you pictures,” Evgeny says.

“You sent me porn, you asshole,” Tom says. “I looked at them so much. I wanted to hear you talk. The sort of things you say, whatever, I never know what it’s going to be. I wanted to know if you were laughing. I had to make a locked folder on my phone and I pretended it was in case my brothers stole it but it was so I wouldn’t be looking at you all the time in, like, the grocery store.”

“Oh,” Evgeny says.

“Like that wasn’t what you wanted,” Tom says, but his hand that came up to catch Evgeny’s and pull it away from his mouth tangles their fingers together, presses back to brush Tom’s knuckles along his cheek. 

What he wants, Evgeny thinks.

“What’s love like?” he'd asked his father, last week, when Evgeny Aleksandrovich was catching up on the ironing. 

“Well, hell, kid,” his papa had said. “Up till now I’d just tell anybody, look at you.” 

He drew a contemplative crease across a shirt sleeve. “You know, you used to be a real nightmare about getting to sleep. People would see your mother and me and say, ‘you must have a new baby,’ and she’d say, ‘for six years now.’ But it was like everything was new to you, and the closer we got to bedtime the more you’d have to rush about to get your hands on all of it, because you just couldn’t believe the world would still be out there in the morning.

“And then you got skating, and I thought—I told your mother—oh, we’re really in for it now. Thought you’d still be up at midnight arguing to get back on the ice. But then I saw you’d work yourself tired, and Sasha or your mother would carry you home, and you’d let yourself be tucked in. You’d be up before dawn again, but right then … out like a light, easy, for the first time. And I thought it was because you liked this thing so much, but you could bear to wait for it, because you knew it would be right there waiting for you in the morning.” 

“Huh,” Evgeny said. 

“Uh huh,” his papa said, and turned a cuff.

“Were you going somewhere, or  … ” Evgeny said.

“So are you marrying this boy or what?” his papa said. “I’d like to know so your mother and I can get tickets, go see the basketball while we’re in America.” 

“I have bad news for you about the Raptors,” Evgeny said. “I don’t know, isn’t it early? Maybe I’m not ready to marry anybody.”

“Oh, so now you know what ‘early’ means. When you were up on the phone at four, I wasn’t sure,” his papa said. “Anyway you’ve told me you wanted to marry somebody since you were nine.”

“Well maybe nine-year-old me had bad taste,” Evgeny said, but he couldn’t really mean that. “Anyway somebody isn’t anybody.”

“Do you ever think this boy won’t be there for you in the morning?” his papa asked.

Evgeny chewed on his finger, and let that one by. “Aren’t you supposed to ask if I like him as much as he likes me?”

“I try not to ask you things,” his papa said. “I still haven’t heard about our basketball tickets. All the way to America—”

“Canada,” Evgeny said.

“—in June, which is very busy for us in the shop, you know, but the nicest month to get married—”

“No, March, for the flowers,” his mama yelled from her office.

“—your mother likes March but she doesn’t think it through, everyone will be cold sitting outside, and she won’t even notice,” his father clarified. “And you don’t even tell her when so she can have a chance to see the basketball too while we’re there!”

“You want to schedule our first baby too?” Evgeny said.

“You ask more than enough things yourself. You ask all the things nobody needs to know,” his father had said, “just so you can answer them. When you don’t ask, that’s just the thing you don’t want us to know you know.”

Evgeny had looked out his parents’ window at the city he was about to leave again, golden under purple clouds as the sun set. The iron hissed and hiccoughed for what seemed like it could be a long time. “He means you didn’t ask us ‘do I love this boy?’” his mother had shouted down the stairs.

Now Evgeny presses his fingertips to a space between Tom’s ribs. He could let his face fall into the warmth of Tom’s shoulder, but he doesn’t. “I miss you too,” he says. “But I know I see you again, not so long. Want you to know, too, know I’m gonna be here to see you in the morning.”


	6. Chapter 6

Evgeny falls off the edge of the guest bed, and thinks he forgot something on the way down. A moment later a second high, horrible yowl raises the short hairs at the back of his neck, and he remembers okay.

Tom’s father is pouring coffee when he pads downstairs, one brother is at the counter reading the crossword clues, and the wolf from February is flopped over a high chair at the other end, paws the size of pancakes folded neatly in front of the fruit bowl. Evgeny slips over to the chair between them, hot fur brushing his side, and gets settled as another howl resounds from the backyard. Everybody winces.

“Good morning, Evgeny,” Keven says. “Want coffee? There’s juice. Sorry if they woke you up, Mr. Laghari—from down the street—he asked if they could come over because they don’t have a second net.”

“Are they okay?” Evgeny asks. He had imagined werewolves would sound more majestic, when he thought about it, which he was starting to suspect wasn’t nearly as much as he should have been. He takes a grape. Jamie rolls his massive bony head around to eye him as he eats it, then blows out a damp, doggy sigh. Evgeny hovers his hand over the fruit bowl, and when he gets an excited whuffle he picks out the orange and starts peeling it for him.

“They’re just playing,” Keven says, comparing juice options. “Here, I’ll get—oh—er, the glasses are just by the sink there.”

“Dad,” Peter says, lowering half of the paper.

“Yeah, I … get that,” Evgeny says. He sets the orange down so Jamie can pin the rind with a delicate claw and leaves him nosing at the fruit to turn it. The glasses are stacked in the open cabinet, white paint and thin green glass, someone else’s morning light filtering through them from the window over the sink. Outside he can see the edge of the trees and the little rink where Tom used to play, now bare cement but for two bright nets. A dust cloud at center ice resolves into four muddy puffs, tumbling over each other, and then into puppies, or whatever werewolves call their children. Evgeny takes the glass, and lets Keven fill it with cranberry juice without comment. He hasn’t had any sugar since last night, which must be why his hands aren’t steady. He flattens them against the baseboard of the cabinet.

“Mug?” he says, trying his luck. “For Tom, you know.”

“Of course. On the third—yes, there you go,” Keven says, and pulls the pot out to pour it for him, misty-eyed.

“Dad,” Peter says. “Machine’s still dripping.”

 

Tom is dozing when Evgeny sneaks back down the hall and elbows his door ajar, just a dark tuft against the white pillow and the soft rise of his ribs visible from the doorway. Evgeny taps it open a little further and slips in, setting the coffee on the vanity. There’s no reason to resist settling into the tempting space at the edge of the mattress, blocked out by Tom’s thigh and his side, so he doesn’t.

Tom rumbles into the pillow, rubbing his cheek in. His eyes are still closed, lashes heavy, and sitting here like this Evgeny can look down at his profile as long as he wants.

“Phone keeps going off,” Tom manages. “Not mine. Yours.” Evgeny had left it plugged in in the TV room last night, because Tom had wanted to walk him to the guest room, however many meters away down the hall, and Evgeny wasn’t about to miss the moment for his Nokia. He hums and leans back into Tom’s side, a light bump at first and then all his weight as Tom startles and turns under him, making a better backrest of his belly. Evgeny wriggles himself comfortable, making sure to poke Tom with pointy bits so Tom will laugh and settle back.

Tom wraps an arm around him, heavy with sleep, bumps his mouth drowsily into Evgeny’s hair, and there are baby werewolves playing in the sunshine outside. It’s awkward for the first time since Evgeny had stopped thinking about it, the great sprawling reality of what he now knows, which is first of all that Tom loves him, and second that he probably can’t tell anyone about it.

“So you live in, what, werewolf subdivision?” he says, and Tom huffs in question. “Children, your dad said, down the street, they like you too.”

“Well, not like me, obviously,” Tom says, but it’s not too heavy, like he knows whatever he heard in that wasn’t what Evgeny had said. “The Collins? They have two girls, and the Lagharis moved in this year, Dad said, they have, what, three? Maybe four. I think he likes having kids in the house again. Their Betty’s good in goal.”

“And, so we clear, is little werewolf,” Evgeny says. “Werewolf condo.”

“Yeah. More like a commune,” Tom says. “But yeah, we’re pretty much outside town here, there’s the woods all around. I guess Pop moved in way back and there were a couple other families in the GTA and it kinda made sense when houses opened up to buy someplace close to each other.”

“Huh,” Evgeny says.

“Are you doing okay?” Tom asks his hair. His arm is still snug around Evgeny's belly, chest framing Evgeny’s shoulders, and Evgeny’s mouth feels full of the soft scent off his skin, like the sweet in tobacco without the edge that burns Evgeny’s nose. “You’ve been taking everything, like, kind of too easy.”

“I’m getting by thinking werewolves are like Russians,” Evgeny says, and shuts his eyes. “Always find each other. Weird when you first meet. Fur. It’s going okay.” He feels like he was missing this before he ever had it, and he’s going to miss it again when they have to go downstairs, and then when they each have to leave again to get things in order before the season, and then he stalls.

“Who’s being weird?” Tom says. “I’m sorry, I told Petey not to do the worry thing again.”

“Tom,” Evgeny says. “Yes, okay, bigger problem. What the fuck we telling everybody?”

“I mean, everybody on mine wants to meet you, but I told them so they’ll be chill, mostly. And you know I want to meet your mom and talk with your dad again, and anybody else, but that can, like, wait if you want,” Tom says, sounding like he is trying much too hard to sound okay at this hour of the morning.

“Tom we still on a professional hockey team,” Evgeny says. “The guys gonna notice.”

“Yeah, I mean,” Tom says, and gives him a little squeeze. “I didn’t think you were planning on being subtle, babe. We can just tell them we’re married now, you know they’ll be cool.”

“Babe,” Evgeny says back. “They gonna notice _werewolf married._ ”

Tom thinks about that for a minute. “We are still on a professional hockey team,” he says. “They may not.”

 

Evgeny asks if they can use the house phone, and somewhere quiet. Keven hands him a second cup of coffee and manages to point him to the office. It’s a nice room, sunny looking out through the rhododendrons towards the dry backyard rink, and Evgeny thinks about swiveling the chair around, but he doesn’t. Tom’s upstairs showering, but they agreed Evgeny wanted to make a couple calls to the people who matter now, while it’s at the front of his mind. He wants a warmup first, though, so he picks TJ.

“Hey Teej, don’t worry, is me,” he says when TJ answers.

“Hey hon,” TJ says. “How’s it going, how are you?”

“Married,” Evgeny says. “Going to be?”

“Oh, wow! Oh, man, I’m so glad to hear, that’s awesome, congratulations,” TJ says easily. “So since when have you been dating?”

“We known each other a while. Since I been in America, actually, you know,” Evgeny hedges.

“Oh, an American?” TJ says, sounding more surprised than he was to hear that Evgeny’s found the love of his life. “That’s cool, that’s like, really open-minded of you, bud.”

“Um,” Evgeny says. “No. Not American, is … Tom.”

“So that’s new,” TJ says after a minute. It’s easy to think he’s spacey, but he just isn’t interested in bogging down with the why and ‘how we got here’. He reflects pretty deep on what’s right now. “And … open-minded of you. Aw, I’m so glad. When’s the wedding?”

Evgeny considers the options in front of him, and says, “Gonna elope. July, while we’re here.”

Evgeny doesn’t like coffee, but Keven had given it to him, so he drinks about half of it while TJ turns that one over.

“Okay,” TJ says, eventually. He sounds slightly muffled, and Evgeny’s better instincts twinge. “Sure.”

“What sure?” Evgeny says.

TJ’s voice comes back. “We can be there, for sure. Just checked and we’re totally free. Oh, this is so awesome. I’m proud of you, babe.”

“Really you don’t have to,” Evgeny says.  “Just little thing, so soon, you don’t—who’s we?”

“No, of course I want to be there for you two! I can pick up Matty from the lake and we’ll drive up, no problem,” TJ says. “Oh, I’m so excited for you guys, O must be so proud.”

“Haven’t told him yet,” Evgeny admits. If he sounds like he’s chewing on his fingernails, it’s because he is.

“Oh! Oh my gosh,” TJ says. “Oh, time difference, of course. Well don’t worry, I won’t spill. See you soon,” and he hangs up on him.

“You not busy with the fishing? Summer’s short,” Evgeny says, when he calls Matty.

“Fish are less important than love,” Matty says. “There are more of them.”

“Oh, I like July for a wedding,” Jay says. “Too bad about the flowers though.”

“Just little thing!”

“Ginny, it’s okay. We know you don’t like asking for big shit, but they’re all gonna want to do it. Think of it as giving the guys something to celebrate if you have to. You know how they were all doing after last season, let them have a chance to celebrate you,” Conno tells him.

“Really?”

“Sure. Just a couple things. Don’t get married in a hockey rink. Don’t forget to have a receiving line, I know Tommy’s grandparents are like, super old and folks care about that. And don’t let Holtsy find out you called anyone first.”

“Fuck,” Evgeny says, and finishes the coffee like a shot.

Braden says, “Don’t worry,” when Evgeny identifies himself.

“What?” Evgeny says.

“Stevie told me,” Braden says, over rustling sounds, like he’s digging through his closet.

“How Stevie tell you?” Evgeny yowls. “He’s rookie baby!”

“We hang,” Braden says with dignity. “Well, he and Nate—I like Nate, and they hang, he comes over, it’s alright.”

On any other day Evgeny would be in raptures over new dirt on how Holts is letting prospects live in his house. Today is an especially trying day. “Okay, Holtsy. Make you a deal. I invite you to our wedding, I’m gonna give you two plus one.”

“You can just say plus two,” Braden says. “And how is that a deal for you?” but he already sounds off-put.

“Road trip,” Evgeny sing-songs. “With rookie babies!”

“Oh my god, what is that sound,” Braden says. “Not you, the other … thing.” Evgeny moves hastily away from the window, where werewolf babies are still playing.

“Tom’s dedushka, he keeps, um, huskies,” he says. “Lots, lots dogs.”

Brooks asks to speak to Tom’s mama.

 

“Did you leave anyone for me?” Tom says, when Evgeny sidles out into the yard to find him overflowing a lawn chair. On this side of the office window he can just hear Neville’s voice, and he tries not to.

“Dunno,” he says. “Anybody you know Teej don’t know?”

“Yeah I’m not taking that bet,” Tom says, and sets his own phone down on the armrest so he can pat his own thigh, looking hopefully up at Evgeny. Jamie, sprawling under the opposite lawn chair, puts his paws over his eyes.

His skin is warm through his shirt when Evgeny settles over him, sunny gold, his smile making his lower lip catch over suspiciously sharp teeth. He had sent Evgeny pictures like this, when Evgeny had been texting him and wouldn’t hear back for a long time. Then he might get a selfie of Tom looking up at him, maybe coming back from a run or after his nap, waking up to Evgeny’s messages, cheeks painted pink and hair a wreck that Tom would’ve never allowed in a photo if he weren’t as eager as he had looked.

“Hi, babe,” Evgeny says, for no apparent reason but it’s what he finds on the tip of his tongue.

“Honey?” Neville calls. “Evgeny, your phone’s buzzing again, do you want me to—do you want to grab that?”

"Okay, yes," he says back, but he doesn't move to go, and it must stop ringing eventually.


	7. Chapter 7

“They’re like parents on TV, aren’t they,” Peter says, in the laundry room later.

Evgeny mostly knows the kind of families who feud. “A bit,” he says. 

No one else had been around to ask about their washing machine. Tom is upstairs making a few of his own calls, while Keven is running errands and Neville tends to the etiquette fires Evgeny started. Jamie was available, and Jamie likes Evgeny, but Jamie is also stubbornly shaped like a dog. Peter had given Evgeny a look that said maybe he’d help, or maybe just he agreed Evgeny needed it. 

“Detergent next. Up here. Dad really wants you to know where the glasses are because you’re not a guest. Little more than that,” Peter says, which apparently is about the detergent Evgeny’s pouring out. “Three quarters of the cap, to that line there.”

Evgeny tips the cap in, making sure to wait until the last fine thread of it has run out. “I’m, good,” he says. “I like them. Want them to like me okay.”

“You know they like you,” Peter says, and steps back to sit on the bench across from the washer like he thinks Evgeny can take it from here.

“You know, someone like Tom, they used to have a special place in werewolf culture. Less like they can’t do what we do, but like we all contribute to the collective in some way somebody else can’t. Lots of ‘wolves are the opposite, they don’t like to turn back much—or they aren’t able to so well or whatever—so someone who stays mostly this shape could help them out.”

“How?” Evgeny asks.

“Opening jars, probably. I was an English major,” Peter says. “I mean, Jamie can stay shifted all the time and all he contributes to anything is hoovering up dust bunnies with his belly fur. But the idea is it’s not a bad thing. It shouldn’t be.” 

He’s quiet long enough that Evgeny dares to poke the Start button. It drops an obnoxious beep into the middle of the moment, clunks over, and starts spinning.

“It’s not always like that now we have to live around humans. We have to depend on them, so we don’t so much on each other. It got easier for us to treat someone like Tom like he’s just human. So when he didn’t turn and after a couple years they were really thinking about what that was going to mean, how hard it was going to be not to fit in, they stopped wanting anything for him.

“Most of the time parents say they want us to be happy but they have ways they always pictured that, because that’s their language for what happiness is, like getting into whatever career or ending up with someone they like. They wanted a certain kind of happiness for me, they’re picturing it for Jamie. But honestly for Tom all they want is him to be happy, somehow. They don’t have a clue what it’s going to look like. So yeah, they’re going to love you just like that, because it turns out you’re what they wanted.”

Evgeny folds his hands against the portal door of the washing machine, leans back against them. “Good. I’m mean, I’m glad,” he says. “Things suck sometimes, I don’t always know how yet, but it is what it is so I want to be here. You don’t want what they want, though.”

“I mean, here’s my thing,” Peter says. “People hate my brother. He keeps doing stuff that makes it worse, and he thinks he’s okay with that, because it’s for you.”

“He do all that for everybody,” Evgeny says.

“Yeah, he would,” Peter says, and when he smiles he looks so much like Tom that Evgeny hates it a bit. He wants to tell him to give that back, even though it doesn’t make any sense. “He’s like that. And he’d get himself in a fuckload of trouble doing it, and I don’t mean with officials. I mean up in his head because you can’t go around doing stuff like that, hurting people, without it sticking.”

It didn’t used to seem so strange, Evgeny thinks, the idea of having someone who grew up in the same dirt you did. But there’s no one left to remember cigarette smoke ground into the cinderblock or honey in tea, the way they fill his mouth sometimes. The people who did never left home, one way or another, and he’s spent too long in other people’s.

“I can’t take hits for him,” he says. “Can’t take inside hits, either. But I’m gonna be here when he can’t anymore. And if he always feel not quite from here and not enough from anywheres else, not gonna ask him to choose. Eбаться-сраться what is that sound.”

“You closed your underwear in the door,” Peter says, but he gets up to pry it open anyway.

 

 

“Zhenya, phone,” Tom calls that night, as Evgeny’s washing up.

“Can you?” he says back, thinks on it, and runs. He catches Tom sitting on the edge of his bed, cross-legged, which isn’t immediately relevant but is adorable as Evgeny hears him say, “Sorry, yeah, this is Tom.”

“Yes, hello,” a pleasantly deep voice, tinged with tobacco and disappointment, says faintly.

“Hi,” Tom says, and skeptically prods it to speakerphone.

“Privyet, Sanka,” Evgeny says around his toothbrush.

“You, later,” Sasha says. “You.” There’s a long speaking pause.

“Oh, me? You want me to go, or stay on?" Tom says. “Kuzy’s right here. Um, you know. Or were you wanting to talk to me about him?”

“I dunno. I call to talk to my Zhenya like every day. Nobody home. Call again, again. You answer _,_ ” Sasha says. 

“I was very busy,” Evgeny says.

“Oh, he want to talk now,” Sasha says, because he has the temper of an outrageously oversized old housecat. 

“He was, a bit,” Tom says. “Mostly he didn’t want to talk about a, uh, one thing, so he didn’t talk about anything just in case.”

“This is about the gay thing, isn’t it,” Sasha says.

“No,” Evgeny says.

“You stalked Jagr,” Sasha says in Russian. “Your record sucks.”

“I told you that was _secret_ ,” Evgeny says back. “I shouldn’t tell you anything, I don’t know why I do, and why do you even get a say anyway, look who you’ve been with, so it doesn’t matter.”

“To be clear,” Tom says, looking like he isn’t at all, “his problem with you liking men is that you’re bad at it?”

“Yes,” Evgeny says in English. He thinks about explaining the way they argue, and doesn’t. They haven’t been arguing, not for weeks. He has been busy, everything seeming to happen just off the right time, so Evgeny’s too tired to answer and too excitable to reach out himself, and everything wrapped up in the secret he wasn’t supposed to give away. Now that’s about to crack under TJ’s curiosity, but no one else seems angry at him so it’s hard to know how much to care. Just having this back feels better than anything that’s been said today, more profound than however grown-up he had seemed for everyone else, but he’s also aware how petty it probably is from outside. “Sorry. Sorry can you talk a min.”

“Okay,” Tom says. He looks like he wishes it wasn’t on speaker so he had something to hold in his hands, but he only folds them together. “Sure. Sorry, Tom again? Hi. Bad news is Evgeny’s accidentally used up his invites on, like, every hockey player we know, but I have a lot of aunts I didn’t want to see anyway. If it works okay do you want to come to our wedding?”

“Orthodox service?” Sasha says.

“No, werewolf,” Tom says, and Sasha laughs so loud the phone shivers, warm and deep.

“Thank you,” Evgeny says under it, and Tom smiles with teeth that seemed human enough until they didn’t.

“I have brothers too, babe,” he says. “And hey, Jagr’s still got it.” 

“Oh good,” Sasha says. “You’re gonna take each other out of circulation.”

“Yeah,” Tom says. “Yeah, good news is he won’t be making a lot more romantic choices to worry about.”

Evgeny reaches out to find his cheek, the corner of his mouth against those teeth. “Choosing you,” he says. “And you choose me.”


	8. Chapter 8

There’s really no easy way to tell your best friend you’re getting married in two weeks, Tom reflects, thumb hovering over the “call” button.

Mike picks up on the third ring, voice warm and happy, like he’s smiling. “Hey buddy.”

Tom smiles back, even though Mike can’t see him, just on instinct. “Hey.”

“What’s so important you’re calling instead of texting? You never call.”

“I call,” Tom protests. He does … sometimes. When it absolutely needs voice instead of flat words on a screen. And he calls his mom like, a lot, during the season.

“Uh huh,” Mike answers. Tom can picture the amused curl of his lip as Mike drawls out the syllables. “So what’s up?”

“I’m getting married.”

There’s a long beat of silence, and then a clatter, like Mike dropped his phone. That’s confirmed when Mike’s breathless voice apologizes “sorry, sorry, you’re _what now?_ ”

Tom cites his lip, stares at the ceiling, flicks a glance at the bedroom door hoping Zhenya will come save him, knowing full-well that Zhenya’s napping in the guest room. “I’m getting married. In two weeks.”

“To _who?_ ” Tom winces. He’s never actually heard Mike hit that note. It’s not … great.

“Zhenya. Evgeny Kuznetsov.”

“... you’re gay-marrying a teammate.” Mike says slowly. “And you’re telling me _two weeks_ before you do it? Ohmygod, this is about the werewolf thing, isn’t it.”

_What?_

“W-What?” Tom stutters. How does Mike _know_ about that? Tom’s mind races, trying to figure out—

“You’re really, really bad about being obvious,” Mike says. He sounds less angry, Tom’s brain helpfully informs him. “I lived with you for years—if it helps anything, I don’t think Andre noticed—and it added up. And then I asked your dad about it on the Dads’ trip and he got really weird, so I’m right, right?”

Tom sinks down on the bed. “You’re not _supposed to know,_ Mike. What if—”

“What if your best bro notices you being weird and figures out cuddling and lots of blankets from that one box you brought makes you less homesick?” Mike finishes for him. “What if he notices that you like wrestling a little too much, or you get twitchy on full moons until you’re distracted enough, or that you’ve definitely sniffed him like every time you go in for a hug? What if he notices that he can barely smell the takeout going bad, but you look like you’ve been dumped in a dumpster? You’re my _best friend,_ Tommy. I’m gonna notice shit like that about you.”

Tom swallows around the lump in his throat. Mike keeps talking. “—and you’d better tell me where this wedding is so I can be there, holding the rings or whatever werewolves do because there’s no way I’m missing this.”

Tom’s so damn lucky to have Mike as a best friend, as Mike loudly points out in between bullying more details out of Tom—“oh, so you’re doing it at the lake? You know, where you’ve invited me before, you asshole. I’m gonna put shaving cream in your shoes”—and congratulating Tom on his engagement—“I can’t _believe_ you didn’t tell me you and Kuzy were dating, and now you’re husbanding that up”—and catching Tom up on his niece’s 1-month-old developments—“she’s the cutest baby you ever saw, Tommy. And I get to see her every day all summer until Jimmy and Carol kick me out because she’s so damn _cute!_ ”

 

Zhenya pokes his head in just as Tom’s saying goodbye. “Latts?” he asks.

Tom nods, tossing his phone on the bed. “Yeah. He’s coming to the wedding. And he was pretty pissed I didn’t tell him we were Courting.”

Zhenya makes a face. Tom echoes it. “Good nap?”

Zhenya shrugs, blue eyes tracking Tom as he paws through his bag for the phone charger he _knows_ he packed. “Couldn’t fall asleep. Still with the jet lag.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s a pain.” Tom straightens back up, phone charger in hand, and gets an armful of blue-eyed Intended.

“Oh! Hi.” Zhenya’s eyes are very, very blue this close up, the windows letting in plenty of summer sun to play across his pale skin.

“Hi,” Zhenya says with a smile.

Tom follows the urge to press a kiss to the arch of Zhenya’s cheekbone, and then another to the corner of his mouth. When Zhenya just hums and presses closer, Tom drops his charger and gets a hand around Zhenya’s back to steady them both.

 

Nate answers the phone on the second try when Tom calls, Zhenya draped over Tom’s back, pointy chin digging into Tom’s collarbone. Tom has to laugh when Nate’s chatter echoes tinnily through the speaker, and Zhenya snickers. “Wait, dude, are you with someone? Why are you calling me? You’re a bad host, Willy.”

“You haven’t even asked why I called,” Tom reminds him.

“Eh, you just miss me,” Nate says breezily. “Everyone does. I’m very missable. But yeah, why _are_ you calling instead of Facetiming like regular people?”

Tom hears a beep of Nate hanging up, and then Nate’s face is filling the screen with a Facetime request. Tom angles the phone to make sure Zhenya’s visible and hits ‘accept.’

“Why’s Kuzy there?” is the first thing Nate asks, even before he’s finished adjusting so Tom’s not staring straight up his friend’s nostrils. Tom doesn’t comment on the explosion of clothes and boxes in the background of the call.

“We getting married,” Zhenya announces. Tom can see the smug look on his Intended’s face in the tiny box at the top, even as Nate blinks blankly back at them. Nate doesn’t say anything. Tom half-turns his head, just enough to see Zhenya in his peripheral, and then the phone starts emitting a tinny whistling noise. Tom whips his attention back in time to see Nate covering his mouth with both hands, red-faced and clearly shrieking with … _some_ sort of emotion.

“You’re getting _married?!_ ” If Tom thought _Mike_ had hit a new pitch, Nate takes it even higher, accompanied by muffled shrieks of further exclamations and the biggest grin Tom’s ever seen on his face. Which, given it’s Nate, is saying something.

“Yeah, buddy,” Tom says. Nate’s glee is infectious, and Tom’s can hear the smile in his own voice. “It’s in like two weeks, though, so don’t—”

“Like, what, the 7th? 8th? What time of day? I’m going home to my folks’ for a bit, and the Cities have a direct flight—” and Nate’s off, muttering to himself about flights. “Wait, is the wedding in like, Toronto? Or do I need to pack for Russia?”

Tom’s gonna miss Nate _so fucking much_ next season.

 

Andre is … shocked, Tom thinks. He’s also strangely quiet for a few minutes. Tom waits him out, phone on speaker in his lap, Zhenya still draped over his back and shoulder.

“Why didn’t you tell me you guys were dating?” Andre finally asks. “Did you think I’d be mad? Or hate you?”

“No!” Tom reassures him. “‘Dre, nothing like that. We didn’t tell _anyone_ we were … dating.” Tom sends a mental pat on the back to his past self. “Not even Mike knew.”

“Oh.”

Andre’s quiet again. Zhenya sighs against Tom’s neck, and Tom reaches back to pat Zhenya’s hip. “We telling you now, before we elope,” Zhenya contributes.

Tom hisses through his teeth when Andre yelps. “How am I suppose to be at your wedding if you elope!”

“We’re not eloping,” Tom hurries to add, elbowing Zhenya a little bit. “We’re just having a small ceremony in a few weeks. You don’t have to—”

“—what day?” Andre interrupts. “You call Papa yet? He’s gonna be mad you didn’t tell him, either.”

Tom sighs. “July 8th. Saturday. We’ll understand if you can’t make it—it’s just a few weeks away and flights are—”

“I’m coming to your wedding.” Andre’s tone is firm, and Tom just shakes his head. Half the fucking _team_ is coming to the wedding, if he understood Conno’s excited voicemail and Brooks’ no-nonsense text from earlier.

“Okay, Burky,” Zhenya croons. “We save you a seat by Mike.”

 

Calling Nicky is easier than expected, especially when Nicky answers with “I’m flying in on the 6th, and someone needs to meet me at the airport.”

“Who told you?” Tom asks, pinching the bridge of his nose. Even _Andre’s_ quick fingers aren’t _that_ fast.

“Ovi, of course. He can’t make it; he has something that can’t be rescheduled in Russia. Why did you only invite people two weeks out? That’s rude, Tom. Some of us have plans.”

“Sorry, Papa. We wanted something small, and … if guys aren’t, y’know …” Tom trails off. _It gives them an excuse to say no,_ he wants to say.

Nicky hums in answer, so Tom thinks he understands.

“I’ll be there,” Nicky promises.

 

Sasha Semin is the first of Zhenya’s people to know, Tom realizes, staring into the darkness of his room that night. He doesn’t think Zhenya’s even told his _parents_ about what Tom is, or what that means.

That’s … Tom’s _glad_ Zhenya has someone there for him, who’s also willing to stand between Zhenya and threats from the world. And not just on the ice.

Tom rolls over, tugging the sheets higher over his shoulder. The fabric is soft beneath his fingers, worn from washings. Zhenya was the first person _Tom’s_ ever told, and he hadn’t even planned on that. And Mike had figured it out on his own. Which means that Semin’s the second human to know, at least from Tom.

Semin had taken Tom’s confession easily, laughed it off as a joke. For some reason, despite Semin’s disdain for Zhenya’s past fixations, he didn’t question the wedding. Just the ‘wolf part. There’s no real reason for him to _believe_ in werewolves, Tom knows, but …  if Semin wants to know who— _what_ —Tom is, and what that means in terms of Tom’s promises to Zhenya, well, now he has all the pieces. If Semin wants to believe, Tom's told him.


	9. Chapter 9

Tom, underneath him, is all sunlight slanting through his bedroom window. His smile keeps catching over his teeth so his bottom lip drags softly. He had sent Evgeny pictures like this, and it’d been easy to imagine maybe he felt as eager as Evgeny, for real, maybe his mouth had gone dry, maybe he was fumbling the camera like that to not show his dick growing heavy in his jeans. Evgeny had imagined that enough, and then he’d thought he’d known it was real the last few weeks, that Tom must want him.

But now he can feel the warmth of Tom’s skin through his t-shirt, Tom’s forgotten somewhere on the way back from his shower, and Evgeny’s back and hips and palms don’t have to remind him how Tom’s hands had felt last winter, not when he has all of him here right now. Tom’s belly under the press of his palms; Tom’s thighs hot sliding against his, giving way as Evgeny’s fingers circle the peak of his hipbones and Evgeny’s knee fits between his. Evgeny takes a moment to glory in the weight of him, the button of Tom’s shorts right there under his fingertips, and then he’s being unceremoniously flipped.

Tom settles over him, collecting Evgeny’s hands gently and kissing each while Evgeny glares at them for traitors. “Zhenya,” Tom says, smiling helplessly at him. “God, you are so, so….”

If the next word isn’t ‘horny,’ Evgeny may have no choice but to widow himself early. 

“Sweet,” Tom says, and then Betty Laghari howls in victory out on the street.

 

By the end of the second day in Ontario Evgeny has come to grips with the situation. He is getting married in a traditional werewolf ceremony, which everyone and their mother is threatening to attend. They cannot find out about werewolves, partly because there will be massive cultural consequences if TJ tells, and largely because Evgeny isn’t prepared to explain it yet and the Wilsons aren’t good at it. If Evgeny didn’t like Tom rather desperately, he wouldn’t still be here after hearing Tom try, and they can’t marry all their teammates. There is also nothing he can do to confidently stop them finding out about werewolves. 

Next week’s consequences are out of his hands, so what’s more pressing to him is that so is everything else. He hasn’t come to grips with anybody in a while; he and his better intentions are starting to crack. 

It might help if he could get through a day without Tom here, and especially without knowing what he looked like just weeks ago, every kind of almost-naked. Evgeny bets Tom can get a grip most of the way around the backs of Evgeny’s thighs, hold him like that, and he already knows from looking how he can fill his own hands with the peaks of Tom’s pectorals, soft with summer weight. 

Maybe not knowing has helped Tom, Evgeny doesn’t know. Evgeny’s never wandered around like Tom does. Tom saw enough for him to like, anyway, although on second thought Tom hadn’t known what he’d liked for a while. The most helpful thing would be to ask, and Evgeny could, but he’s not naturally inclined to being helpful.

“Honey?” Neville calls next morning, when they’re settled in the kitchen, Tom with coffee and Evgeny with Tom’s arm around him and a curdling frustration that’s doing more than tea would anyway. Tom doesn’t respond, long enough for Evgeny to realize that’s him now.

“Yeah?” 

She sticks her head in, phone cradled against her shoulder. “Morning, kiddo. Evgeny, was there anything you all do you were wanting for the ceremony?”

“Whose?” Evgeny checks.

“Grampie just called. We wanted to be sure, if there’s anything humans do, that would be lovely to include. It’s a little tight—Tom will be busy all day—but of course we’ll move whatever else around that.”

“Um,” Evgeny says. “Don’t need to really.”

“No, no, of course we want to. It takes two to choose each other, and it’s important we respect that.”

“What did Grampie say?” Tom asks. 

Neville glances down at the phone. “He’s very excited to throw beans at people,” she says. “He’s been googling again.”

They're looking expectantly at him. “I dunno,” Evgeny says, shrugging under Tom’s arm. “Never got married before.” 

Tom lets the arm move, then gives him a little shake and a squeeze. “Dancing. With me, you know. That’s one, isn’t it?”

Evgeny could say what he just said. It wouldn’t be helpful. “Yeah,” he says. “That sounds really nice.” 

Tom kisses the corner of his forehead in thanks, and he must be smiling into Evgeny’s hair, because Neville’s smiling at him.

 

“Hey, babe?” Tom says later, rapping on the guest room door. Evgeny makes some encouraging noise and Tom presses it open, leaning in with earnestly crossed arms. Evgeny lifts his chin enough to see those arms better, from where he’s tossed himself across the pillows in frustration. Maybe his mouth slips open, and maybe he makes another high-pitched noise, and maybe it’s his fault Tom’s lower lip goes soft and he offers out a hand. Evgeny takes the first two fingers he can reach, then finds his palm, circling that arm and up to draw him down as Tom drifts in.

Tom lands over him easy, weight and heat. His breath drifts through Evgeny’s hair, slow flush of warmth and then an indrawn breath that makes Evgeny shiver. “This is nice,” Tom says. 

Evgeny pinches him.

“Was that for something?” Tom says, undisturbed. He has to know that’s worse of a flag in front of Evgeny than the original offense of being too satisfied.

“In a house full with werewolf,” Evgeny says. “Next door, baby werewolf! What’m I supposed to do when I can’t do anything?”

“I’m gonna need a couple more words to get that one, babe,” Tom says. Evgeny growls, shoves at Tom’s chest so he lifts himself up and off him a few inches, and grabs his own zipper.

“Werewolf,” he says, “gonna hear—or smell, or whatever—if I do anything.”

Tom says, “Fuck,” long and slow, and for a second his commitment to good push-up form waivers, hips jerking in. “You haven’t. Really?”

Evgeny counts to three, and then squawks “No!” directly into his ear.

“No, that’s—I mean, oh—the walls are all soundproofed, we all have to live with each other, and—yeah. So if you, if you need … as long as _we’re_ not … that’s so fine,” Tom reassures him. 

Evgeny thinks about that. “Oh,” he says.

“Yeah, I’m so sorry,” Tom says, and presses a quick kiss to Evgeny’s hair that turns into several, skimming his forehead to his cheek and drifting further down. “You didn’t need to not do that.”

“Tom?” Evgeny says, and grabs his face securely to keep him at speaking level. “I’m gonna be very busy a bit. Get out.”

He lets Tom close the door behind him before he sweeps fingers under his waistband, Tom’s warmth still heady around him. He lets Tom get downstairs before he retrieves his phone and starts sending Tom snaps. It’s only fair, and it takes two to make a marriage, after all.


	10. Chapter 10

Tom’s mom ambushes him as he roots through the fridge for more grapes, hoping that Pete had not, in fact, eaten the last of them. “Has anyone talked to you about the ‘wolf traditions that you’re expected to perform for your union?”

“Um, no? I thought it was, like, stand in front of people, get the blessing from Mother Moon, and kiss? Sign the marriage certificate for the human part, and Mark said he and Zhenya’s agent coordinated that for us. All we have to do is sign.”

“Tom,” his mom says, and Tom hears the unspoken _look at me_ in her tone. He straightens up and closes the fridge, setting his back to the metal surface. “I know you two want to keep it simple and quiet, but there’s a little more to it than that.”

“Zhenya’s human, though. And so are our teammates,” Tom protests. It sounds like a feeble excuse, though, and he knows it.

His mom levels him a Look, and his shoulders slump. “There are still Traditions to be observed, Thomas, and _you_ are ‘wolf, no matter if your Intended is human.”

“And you’re gonna tell me all about them?”

His mom laughs. “No. That’s what your grandmother and Grampie will be doing today, while you help them get settled in at the lake cabins.”

Tom blinks, winces. While he loves them both dearly, Grandma Wilson and Grampie do _not_ see eye-to-eye on pack politics. And Tom’s gone and gotten himself engaged to a human, which is sure to involve more than the usual lecture on meeting a nice ‘wolf of proper standing. “Mo-om, c’mon.”

“Don’t ‘mo-om’ me, Tom. You got yourself into this.” She flaps her hands at him. “Go get cleaned up so you can help your grandparents.”

 

“Mrrph,” Tom groans, flopping face-first into Zhenya’s bed at the cabin. The duvet is soft under his cheek, and he absently scentmarks it.

Zhenya perches on the end of the bed, probably wearing that laugh-smile. His voice gives away that he is definitely laughing at Tom’s misery. “How it go with grandpapa and grandmama?”

Tom turns his head to the side, just enough that he can squint at his Intended. “I never want to hear my grandparents talk about sex ever again. _Especially_ about how _I’m_ supposed to have sex with my Chosen.” Tom shudders. He’s never wanted to give in to the hiding instinct so much. “Also, Grandma definitely forgot I can’t transform, like, six different times, and then Grampie would remind her, and then she’d huff at him, and—argh.”

“So, you learn about werewolf marriage?”

“Sorta?” Tom rolls over onto his back, thumping up against Zhenya’s hip and thigh. “I mean, part of the whole problem is that you’re human, I can’t transform, and we invited a whole bunch of our very human teammates. So Grandma and Grampie were arguing the whole time about which traditions we absolutely _have_ to keep, and which ones we can adapt and change so it’s not as obvious?

“I mean, it’s not gonna be a normal wedding anyway, but we’re at least going to hope it’s not werewolf-y enough for our teammates to notice.”

Zhenya’s quiet for a beat, long fingers starting to tangle themselves in Tom’s hair. It feels nice, and Tom nudges his head into it, hoping Zhenya will keep at it. “You think they notice?”

“If Grandma has her way, probably not,” Tom admits. “She’s been to a few human weddings, and there are some traditions we can adjust to be similar. If Grampie gets to throw beans at them … maybe? He really, _really_ likes the bean thing.”

Tom feels the bed shift beneath him, and Zhenya’s fingers leave his hair. Tom makes a protesting noise and starts to sit up, only to get a lapful of Intended. “You like sitting on me, huh.”

“Maybe,” Zhenya returns. He traces Tom’s nose from brow to tip with one finger. He’s also chewing on his lip. “What did your grandmama say about marrying me? About me being human?”

Tom’s hands settle at Zhenya’s shirt, his thumb rubbing over the cut of Zhenya’s hip. “She wants to meet you. Before the ceremony, if you’re okay with that. She, uh, kept mentioning complementary partners—”

“—I give you plenty compliment,” Zhenya interrupts.

“Not that kind of compliment,” Tom says. “More like, um, like balancing each other. Like a good D-pair.”

He gets a kiss for that one. Tom’s not quite following Zhenya’s logic, but he’s certainly not turning down kisses. Zhenya’s mouth is soft, and Tom eases them both down until Tom’s once again flat on his back, Zhenya propped up on his elbows over him.

Tom’s more than willing to bet—and honestly is hoping—this will become a _very_ familiar position.

 

Tom wakes up late the next morning, sunlight dimmed by the curtains. After a moment of staring at the ceiling, he registers the absolute quiet of the cabin, now that he and Zhenya have been separated for the next few days. Too few beds in their usual cabin, Tom’s dad had explained, shooing Tom and his bags off to what Jamie’s dubbed “the honeymoon suite.”

Still, that means if Tom wants to see his Intended—or get breakfast—he has to get dressed and venture outside.

 

Tom walks through the front door into chaos. Oh, good, the cousins have started arriving. Which means several someones that aren’t Tom or Zhenya are probably going to get stuck on the airport chauffeuring rotation tomorrow, when teammates start arriving. Tom makes a note to emphasize that his teammates are _very much human_ to whichever relatives get put on that particular duty.

Zhenya’s holding court in the kitchen, perched on one of the bar stools with Jamie half-wedged beneath it. Every so often, Zhenya’s bare foot will kick Jamie in the side. Tom levels an unimpressed stare at his baby brother; Jamie ignores him.

Zhenya sees Tom and stops mid-sentence to toss him a pleased smile. “Tom! I just meet your aunt. She promise to tell me baby stories.”

Tom winces, but … well, that’s pretty much what he’d expected. He ducks down to press a kiss to the corner of Zhenya’s upturned mouth. “Morning, babe. How’d you sleep?”

Zhenya makes a noise when Tom pulls back to survey the remaining spread from breakfast. “I slept good. Your papa wakes up very early, you know?”

Tom snags a plate of pancakes and the orange juice, looking around for a spare glass. Zhenya slides his mug of coffee in Tom’s direction and Tom takes it gratefully. He gets about half of it down before—“Why do you have coffee? You don’t drink coffee.”

“Your papa make it for me, so I take. Know you drink it for me, if you ever wake up.”

The coffee’s still hot. Zhenya’s face is daring Tom to call him out on the obvious lie, and Tom’s more interested in draining the rest of the coffee, getting a refill, and nudging Jamie out of the way with his foot so he can drag a second bar stool close enough to wrap Zhenya up in one arm. “Thanks, babe.”

Zhenya turns into the touch, leaning into Tom’s side. “My parents coming tomorrow,” Zhenya says. “With Sasha.”

“Nicky, too. And Andre. I think everyone else is coming Friday and Saturday.” Tom’s trying not to think about Zhenya’s parents. It’s one thing to meet your teammate’s dad on the dads’ trip. He’s done that lots of times. But he’s never met Zhenya’s mom, and he’s definitely never met Zhenya’s parents as Zhenya’s fiancé.

Tom also isn’t really looking forward to speaking more with Sasha Semin, either, if he’s honest. Zhenya’s parents might be easier to handle.

 

Tom eats his words that afternoon, because he’d much rather be dealing with Semin than trying to conceal his arousal from the twenty-odd relatives who’ve shown up while Zhenya’s dipping in and out of the lake, playing frisbee with a wolf-shaped Jamie and cousins. He’s not succeeding, if the knowing smile from Grandma Wilson is any indication.

Zhenya tosses the frisbee again, a pack of wolves chasing after it, and jogs over to where Tom’s clutching his beer bottle like a lifeline. Summer sun looks _good_ on Zhenya, even if Tom can see the fine dusting of pink along his shoulders that’s likely to burn later.

“For me?” Zhenya gives Tom that little sly smile and reaches for Tom’s beer, which Tom instinctively pulls out of Zhenya’s reach.

“Hey—” Tom cuts himself off and squeaks when Zhenya’s knee plants itself between his thighs on the lounge chair, Zhenya’s hand settling on Tom’s shoulder as he reaches over Tom for the bottle. Tom’s brain helpfully tracks the water droplets slipping from Zhenya’s shoulder through his sparse chest hair and down to the cut of his abs, to where his swimming shorts are hugging his hips. “Nngg,” he manages.

“What,” Zhenya says, drawing it out until he breaks, already giggling, “so, what, do—you don’t wanna give it to me?” He _might_ be able to make the phrase more suggestive, if he really tried. Tom’s trying not to picture what _giving it to Zhenya_ might look like; his grandma’s _right there._

Zhenya’s no help. He actually drops lower, almost blanketing Tom, and kisses Tom’s cheekbone just beneath his eye—incidentally, Tom’s sure, rolling his full weight against Tom’s very interested dick. Tom’s breath hitches, and he really, really wants to drain the last of that beer right now.

Zhenya beats him to it, slipping the bottle out of Tom’s hand and tipping it up. Tom wants to set his teeth in the line of his neck—and flushes red down his chest when the memory of the last time he did that replays in his head.

“Don’t worry, babe,” Zhenya says, voice dropping quieter. Tom doesn’t know how to tell Zhenya that ‘wolves can hear him whisper from across a crowded room, let alone on a quiet-ish porch. “I give one to you later.” He follows _that_ up with an exaggerated wink and a firm, appreciative pat to Tom’s chest.

Tom thunks his head back against the vinyl headrest as Zhenya climbs off and stretches, highlighting every dip of muscle. Grandma and cousin Jenny are openly snickering at him now, Jenny toasting him with her beer when he glances over. Tom groans and rolls over, breathing deeply in an effort to calm down.

It doesn’t work.

Tom glares at nothing, then huffs. He turns his head and winces, the sun reflecting right off the water. Which ... huh. That should do the trick.

Tom gets a running start off the dock, cold lakewater slapping against his stomach and hips when his dive ends up slightly too shallow. The shock of the impact—and the frigidity of the sudden immersion—kills his arousal fairly effectively, though.

He surfaces and rakes his dripping hair out of his eyes. The lake’s not terribly deep where he is right now—if he stands on tiptoe, his shoulders are just beneath the waves. And from here, he has a perfect sightline of his laughing Intended sneaking up on a sleeping Jamie on a tethered floatie with a bucket of cold water. Pete, reclining on the other floatie with his fiancée snuggled up to him, is watching with interest. And Zhenya’s back is to Tom.

Zhenya’s high-pitched yelp when Tom yanks his ankles out from under him is echoed by Jamie’s indignant howl when the bucket upends over him, both muffled from underwater. Zhenya kicks out and catches Tom in the ribs before Tom hauls them both back to the surface to sputter and breathe. “So _mean!_ ” Zhenya informs him, shivering in Tom’s embrace.

“Mean? You’re the one pressing all up against me and scandalizing my grandmother!” Tom teases back. He knows Zhenya knows Grandma Wilson finds Zhenya teasing Tom hilarious.

“Would be more scandal if you just fuck me like you grandma say,” Zhenya mutters, punctuating that sentence with a tap to Tom’s nose before he wiggles out of Tom’s arms and up onto the dock.

Tom stares after him, mouth agape. He shakes his head, but—

“Wait, you guys haven’t fucked yet?”

Tom does _not_ need his little brother’s input on this right now. Or ever.

“Of course not,” Tom snaps. “We’re Courting, not married. It wouldn’t be Proper to expect—”

“—that’s pretty Traditional,” Pete cuts in. He splashes a little, floating closer. “Are you expecting him to be a virgin, too? Because that’s asking a lot of an Intended.”

“What? No!” Whatever arousal had flared back up with Zhenya pressed wet and slippery against him has died an abrupt death. “I don’t care how many people he’s slept with.”

Pete presses his lips together to hide a smile. Tom narrows his eyes at his brother. “What?”

“Just how Traditional of a Courting did you do?” Pete asks.

“Did you ask him to be celibate during the Courting?” Jamie asks, catching on to what Pete’s asking. “That’s about as Traditional as it gets.”

“Zhenya’s human,” Tom says firmly. “I couldn’t ask that of him. Not when he wouldn’t understand what it means.”

His brothers exchange a look, and Leah raises her eyebrows. “Wow,” she says. “I’m actually impressed. What’s it been, two months?”

Tom wants to be anywhere but here right now, and he does _not_ want to be having this conversation with anyone. Ever. But Jamie and Pete are staring at him, and Leah’s waiting expectantly. “Two and a half,” he admits.

Two and a half months of cold showers, of exercising his arousal away, of squirming in his seat when Zhenya’s sent him suggestive texts and photos—and then a week of Zhenya teasing him, brushing up against him at every opportunity, eyes bright and smile knowing.

It’s been absolute torture. 

And it’s going to absolutely be worth it when Tom makes that promise to Zhenya beneath the full moon. But for now, Tom’s wilting a little in embarrassment because “you know _literally no one_ takes that part of the Courting that seriously, right?” Pete says, voice higher in his incredulity. “Like, you know you don’t have to wait, right? It’s fine if you _want to,_ but … no one’s going to be upset if you guys _did_ have sex before the handfasting.”

“He’s worth it,” Tom argues. And Zhenya _is._ Tom … Tom knows Zhenya knows Tom will always have his back on the ice. That Tom will drop the gloves for him every time Zhenya needs him to. And this is one way he can prove that loyalty off the ice, too. As a husband. As a partner. “I want him to know I’m his. That he’s the one I want. Forever. As long as he’ll have me.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Leah coos, and Pete swivels his head to stare at his fiancée, and Jamie gags theatrically. “Saaaaaaap,” Jamie groans, and makes a dash for the shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note to readers: Other than Tom's immediate family and grandparents, all Wilson cousins and extended family members have been made up for plot purposes. We do hope you'll understand and enjoy.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so patient with this chapter. We know it's been a while.

Zhenya wouldn’t let any of Tom’s family be the ones to pick up his parents and Sasha. So now Tom’s hoping they won’t be recognized too much while keeping an eye on a fidgeting Zhenya. Fidgeting, that is, until the baggage claim doors open and a trio of tired Russians step through. Then, Zhenya settles into a fast walk, ducking down to receive kisses from his mother.

Tom isn’t sure what to do with his hands, so he stuffs them in his pockets.

Zhenya hugs his father, and gets a long, solid embrace from Semin, who murmurs something too quiet for Tom to make out before he turns back to wave Tom closer.

Mrs. Kuznetsov—Kuznetsova—Tom’s brain reminds him, is _tiny._ She looks small next to her husband, let alone her son and Semin and Tom himself. “Privyet,” Tom says. “How was your flight?”

“Long,” Mr. Kuznetsov says. “Long flight. Not good for sleep.”

“Oh,” Tom says. “Well, we can get you set up at the lake and you can take a nap if—”

“—still wrong,” Zhenya says.

Tom blinks.

“I _like_ ‘Yevdokia,’” Semin says mildly. There’s a smile playing on his lips, and if Tom can see it, he’s sure Zhenya can as well. Okay, then, just normal argument for them.

“Is stupid name,” Zhenya argues. “And anyway, what if we have a boy?”

 _Oh._ They’re debating baby names. Tom’s not going to wade into that one. That’s a few years away, at least. Maybe. They’ll probably have to talk about that after the wedding.

Tom turns his attention back to Zhenya’s parents, who look more amused than tired. Mrs. Kuznetsova accepts Tom’s offered handshake, pulls him down to press a dry kiss to his cheeks, and then steps back to look him over again. Tom’s brain short-circuits on the next question he was going to ask.

Zhenya starts herding them all over to the baggage carousel, anyway, saving them from more awkward moments with Tom’s future in-laws. In-laws who hopefully speak _some_ English, anyway, Tom hopes, because his Russian’s still pretty pathetic.

 

Between Semin, Zhenya, and Tom himself, Zhenya’s parents don’t end up carrying anything out to the car other than Mrs. Kuznetsova’s purse, which she refuses to hand off to her son.

Given Zhenya’s habit of poking through things that don’t always belong to him, Tom’s pretty sure he knows why. Tom’s already found Zhenya paging through Tom’s baby photos, although to be fair, Tom’s mom probably enabled him on that.

Zhenya squeezes his lanky form into the backseat of the SUV, letting Semin and Mr. Kuznetsov take the center seats and Mrs. Kuznetsova the front. Tom checks to make sure everyone’s in and settled before he pulls out of the parking garage and heads for the freeway.

“Zhenya say it ‘outdoor ceremony,’” Mrs. Kuznetsova says carefully.

“What? Oh, uh, yeah,” Tom answers, keeping his eyes on the road instead of darting over to watch her face. “We’re at the lake cabins—my family goes there every summer for reunions, so they know us and everything, it’s beautiful. We’ll have the ceremony, sign the papers, and then supper.”

“And dancing,” Zhenya adds.

Mr. Kuznetsov laughs at that. In the mirror, Tom watches Zhenya make a fake-affronted face.

 

Zhenya’s parents have a cabin to themselves, and Semin’s been booked in with Nicke and some of the other Caps (everyone sans families, thankfully—Tom has _no_ idea how they’d keep the werewolf thing secret from the more observant Better Halves) in one of the bigger cabins. The Kuznetsovs wave Tom off after he gets their bags in for them, and he hopes they remember the directions to the main lodge when they wake up from their naps.

Zhenya’s already halfway to the Caps cabins with Semin in tow by the time Tom figures out where his Intended has gone. He debates heading over, then turns back to the main lodge instead. Zhenya can handle their teammates just fine, and Tom has to start pre-ceremony preparations. Grandma Wilson and Grampie had _both_ agreed certain Traditions had to stay, no matter how human Zhenya and their guests might be.

 

Zhenya sneaks up on Tom while he and Pete are trying to figure out how to set up the spit in the firepit. Tom doesn’t _shriek,_ but he’ll admit to a high-pitched noise when clever fingers unerringly find the sensitive spots on his sides.

Tom drops the sheet of instructions on the ground and spins, fingertips just missing Zhenya’s sleeve. His Intended skips back a few steps, teeth bared in a wide grin.

“Zhenya, what are you—” Tom starts, but doesn’t actually finish asking, because Zhenya’s dancing in, curving beneath Tom’s arm to press up against Tom’s side.

“What’s this?” Zhenya asks, eyes darting to the spit lying half-assembled in the sand.

“Your wedding dinner, eventually,” Pete drawls, leaning back against one of the supports. “Once Tommy gets it built, that is.”

Tom presses a kiss to Zhenya’s soft hair and squeezes him a little. “It’s Tradition,” he says a little sheepishly. “This is one that the family isn’t gonna let us leave out.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Tom says. “And this part is just for me, since I’m the one who started our Courtship. So.”

“Just kiss him already,” Pete says. “I said I’d help, but I want lunch sometime this century, so kiss your Intended and then send him off to Grandma for more baby photos.”

Zhenya tilts his chin up invitingly. Tom flips Pete off, but angles in for a kiss anyway. He keeps it on the shorter side of what he wants to do, since there’s an audience. There’s _always_ an audience this week, it seems.

 

The last (hopefully) caravan of relatives shows up in time for dinner, refrigerated trailer in tow. His dad whistles when he peeks inside, and Tom swallows. No big deal, right? He just has to make sure everything runs to plan now, and that the Pack’s contribution is properly presented.

The slab of … well, it’s some sort of meat … is enormous. Tom eyes it speculatively, mentally calculating how to get it all situated. “What did they even _hunt?_ ” he mutters under his breath, hauling himself into the trailer for a closer look.

Between the side slab of what’s probably moose and the string of plucked chickens, there should be enough to feed everyone with some to spare. Hopefully. Hockey players and ‘wolves have healthy appetites in common.

 

Latts goes in for a full-body hug when he drives in with Nate in tow, and damn, Tom’s missed him so much. He smells the same, healthy with summer tan already. Nate lets them hug it out for all of two minutes and then gloms on. “Group hug! Willy’s getting hitched!”

Tom laughs, nose buried in Mike’s hair. He works an arm free to wrap around Nate’s middle and hold him close. “Yeah, yeah. Glad you guys could make it.”

 

Tom gets roped into setting up for supper, not that he minds too much. It means that he can sample bits from the food his dad and uncles are cooking up, and also means that he can remind his relatives that his teammates are very human, and not aware of the ‘wolves in their midst.

Kitchen and set-up duty also means that Tom’s in and out of the lodge, setting up camp chairs by the biggest firepit not currently playing host to the roasting spit and getting cornered by congratulatory teammates and relatives alike.

“We were thinking you’d never find someone,” Uncle Brian informs him, big hand clapping Tom’s shoulder, “but you surprised us!”

“He’s incredibly suitable, for someone like you,” Cousin Annie says. “And he’s not hard on the eyes, either.”

“It’s a shame you can’t have pups,” Cousin Jenny says with a wicked grin. “But that shouldn’t stop you from trying! He’s a pretty one, isn’t he.”

Tom stares at her, and doesn’t even bother trying to come up with a response to _that._ Because, well, yeah, Zhenya’s gorgeous, and that t-shirt’s showing off his tattoos and arms really nicely, and his jeans, like every NHL’er’s, are tailored to fit him perfectly. (Tom might need a minute to himself.)

“Kuzy looks happy,” Nicky says quietly, watching Tom set out the stacks of plates and silverware. Tom looks up sharply, because Nicky’s approval has never meant nothing to him. “I was a bit surprised you wanted to get married this summer, so quick, but you seem happy.”

“I _am_ happy,” Tom says. Nicky’s calm assessment makes him squirm a little. “I want him to be happy. I want to _make_ him happy, or maybe not make him, but like, assist him in being happy. For like, a long time. Our whole lives.”

Supper probably should feel more awkward, Wilson family members mixing in with teammates, but it isn’t. Balancing plates on their laps in the camp chairs by the fire, it feels like a barbecue more than the night before the biggest day of Tom’s life.

Of course, Jamie’s the first of the relatives to slink off and return in ‘wolf form, settling at Zhenya’s feet with a happy sigh. Zhenya scruffs a hand through Jamie’s thick fur with a smile.

Tom’s not jealous of his little brother. He’s not. But he also knows just how talented Zhenya’s hands are, and right now they’re buried wrist-deep in Jamie’s ruff.

But Jamie’s move sets off a handful of relatives following suit, dumping their trash and at least having the courtesy to get out of sight before folding into their ‘wolf shapes. Tom hears a tiny cracking sound and eases up on his grip. The bottle holds its shape, but he can feel the wetness on his hand—blood or beer, he’s not sure until he licks it away. Beer, thankfully.

A wet nose nudges the back of his hand and he startles. Cousin Jenny blinks back at him with a canine’s smile. “Oh!” Tom lets her lean her weight against his arm. “Just a heads-up for everyone, but Nicky is kinda scared of dogs, so … can you guys be nice and not bother him?”

Jenny huffs, but dips her head. Message received.

 

Tom sets his alarm for 7 a.m. with a grimace. The light from his phone casts shadows against the bedroom walls, illuminating the emptiness of the nightstand opposite. _Tomorrow,_ Tom thinks. This time tomorrow night, he’ll be married. Zhenya’s things will take over half the room. Zhenya himself will be sleeping next to Tom.

It’s both exhilarating and terrifying. Tom honestly can’t wait for tomorrow night—well, moonrise, technically—to arrive. He rolls to his side, facing the side of the bed where Zhenya will eventually sleep—huh. Tom doesn’t actually know if Zhenya has a preference for sleeping on a particular side. He’ll have to ask.

 

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Tom groans, the insistent buzzing of his alarm chasing away the thought of Zhenya wrapping ribbons around the antlers of an incredibly tame moose. He shakes himself awake, stumbling into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

Tom rubs a hand against his beard, staring at his reflection. He tilts his head, turns to see the profile out of the corner of his eye. Yeah, he should probably neaten that up for his wedding day. Andre’s sure to be snapping illicit photos when no one’s looking.

Tom’s still yawning when he gets to the main lodge and its giant kitchen, pulling out his phone and tapping into his notes. A quick glance outside confirms the spit is up and ready, if in need of a quick wipedown to get the dew off before he gets the fire going. That’s an easy enough task to start the day off on the right foot.

Tom’s elbow-deep in the sink when the first of the cousins shuffles in for coffee, counter still strewn with flour and other leftover ingredients. The bowls of stuffing are safely wrapped for later, and Tom has a mountain of potatoes to peel once he gets this round cleaned up.

“Coffee’s in the main room today,” Tom offers. He gets an appreciative fingerwave and a yawn for his efforts.

Tom dries off his hands and eyes the bags of potatoes. They stare back at him expectantly. Tom blows out a breath and pulls over Grampie’s big roaster pan and yet another bowl for the peelings. _One at a time,_ he thinks. Just one thing at a time.

 

“You need any help?” Conno offers once he’s downed his second cup of coffee, nodding at the pile of unpeeled potatoes Tom’s planning on stuffing with cheese and bacon.

“I can’t, actually,” Tom says with a rueful smile. “Tradition in my family means whoever proposed makes the meal.”

“If we don’t actually _touch_ any of the food,” Conno muses, “can we help you wrap ‘em?”

 _We?_ Tom looks up from slicing the cheese to see more of his teammates crowding into the kitchen. T.J. makes jazz hands, and Latts shrugs. “Kinda shitty groomsmen if we can’t help with _something._ ”

Tom looks at his team, his _friends,_ and then down at his to-do list. “I’m pretty sure Mom wouldn’t mind getting some help setting up the chairs for the ceremony, and I do have a lot of baked potatoes that are gonna need wrapped,” he finally says. “And if anyone wants to help me get the spit going, the fire should be burned down enough to start cooking that.”

Matt gives him a thumbs-up and a yawn. “Can do.”

T.J. bumps against Tom’s hip companionably as he starts tearing off potato-sized sheets of aluminum foil. “Can’t let you have all the fun the day of your wedding, y’know.”

 

Tom really has no reason to be nervous. Zhenya’s already said yes; he’s met Tom’s family; half their teammates are waiting outside and the other half have given their congratulations. But Tom’s fingers still tremble when he knots his tie around his throat and checks the mirror one last time.

Tom  swallows, smooths down the waistcoat of his suit. Time to face the music—in the form of gathered family and friends waiting (im)patiently for Tom to serve the meal.

He’d left Latts and Nate in charge of the roasting spit, and it still seems to be intact as he strides across the grass. Andre’s hanging all over Latts, but Latts is laughing and Nate actually seems to be taking it seriously, poking at one of the chickens spinning beneath the slab of what Tom figured out is moose.

Andre’s the first to notice Tom, and his smile is blinding. “You look good in that suit, Willy,” he says brightly. “Like ready to be married and everything!”

Tom licks his lips. “Uh, yeah. I, uh—how’s everything cooking?”

Nate straightens up and gives Tom a onceover. “I think I’m underdressed for this, guys,” he complains, gesturing at his perfectly acceptable slacks and shirt. He’s even wearing a tie. “I didn’t bring my good suit for an outdoor ceremony.”

Tom rolls his eyes. “You’re not the one … getting … married.” Tom’s _getting married._

Some of that panic must show on his face, because Latts shrugs Andre off and wraps Tom in a hug. “Hey. Breathe. I’m pretty sure Conno’s got like, some sort of alcohol if you need it, but you don’t. This is you and Kuzy, yeah? You love each other. This is just telling everyone how much you love him.”

Tom nods, takes a deep breath of Latts’ familiar scent and the notes of his cologne. It helps. And then he’s surrounded by more familiar scents when Andre and Nate join the hug, careful in their embraces to avoid crumpling Tom’s suit.

Tom has _really_ good friends.

“Okay, though, seriously, can we break up the love fest so we can actually get some food now?” Jamie whines from a distance, absolutely ruining a nice moment. Tom could _kill_ his little brother, but—

Tom looks up and Zhenya looks back, that Cheshire cat grin playing at his lips.


End file.
